Blood Ties
by Igornerd
Summary: It wasn't enough to have to deal with the Thalmor, the Falmer, and all the other assholes. Now he had to deal with the antics of a blond boy, too. Rating could change because of violence in future chapters.
1. A child is chosen, a child is found

**A\N: I don't own either Naruto or The Elder Scrolls.**

This is actually the first thing I tried to write. The first, raw version was written a week before I posted the first chapter of Drunken Space-Time Ninjutsu. In the last weeks, it just kept staring at me from my drive. I hope you guys will like it.

**Beta: Duesal Bladesinger. The art cover was done by AlmostElectric, who is not only a good artist but an author with lot of potential.**

* * *

It was a cold winter, this one. Even for Skyrim, a land known for its rigid climate, it was a difficult one for its inhabitants.

The denizens of the village of Helgen were all barricaded inside their homes, away from the biting cold. Laughs could be heard coming from the inside of the local inn, and sounds of music and songs.

But no laughs or songs were heating the Harissen household. Husband and wife were sitting quietly on different sides of the common room, ignoring each other in an almost embarrassing way.

After all, this was the last night they would spend under the same roof.

They already stopped sleeping in the same bed. It wasn't like they hated each other, or one of them had an affair. They had married too quickly and realized too late that they just didn't work as a couple. It happened every day, in every part of Tamriel, after all.

So they had decided, in common agreement, to divorce. They brought their case to the jarl and the priest of Falkenrath and asked for the annulment of the marriage. But it was more difficult that they would have believed it to be.

A wailing came from upstairs. Soon, another cry could be heard.

The soon-to-be-former couple met each other's eyes. That was the sound of the only reason why they hadn't already said their goodbyes to each other a week ago.

The woman nodded and rose, moving towards the stair that took to the house's upper floor. Following the noise, she arrived in the main bedroom where a crib was placed beside the bed she had shared with her husband.

Inside the cradle a pair of toddlers, not even nine months old, were crying. One of the twins had probably woken up and his noise disturbed his brother's sleep. Sitting herself on the border of the bed, the young mother started to swing slowly the cradle and singing a lullaby. She hoped that they would go back to sleep, the last nights had been almost deprived of rest, between the twins waking up and the tension between her and her husband.

They had tried to stay together, for their sons' sakes, they really did. But it wasn't fated to be, it seemed. The worse part was that by decree of the jarl, they would have to split the children. It was a compromise of sorts. None of the parents wanted to lose their offspring. And she had been given the right to choose, by the jarl and the priest alike.

She tried to talk about it with her former husband, but he just washed his hands about the whole thing. The choice was hers, and only hers. Nobody had objected at that, not even the jarl. May the Nine—may the _Eight_ damn these men, torturing a mother with such a decision!

The children were asleep again, or so she thought, since they were no longer crying. She gazed at the fruits of her womb with sorrow in her eyes. They were so small, so fragile. They both had her blond hair, but inherited their father's blue eyes.

But who to choose?

She and the twins' father were both Nords, but she wasn't a Skyrim native like the man she had loved. One of them—the firstborn—was stronger and healthier than his brother. The second twin instead was more frail, and more prone to coughs attack and cold in this season.

She was born in Cyrodiil, and had no family that she knew of in her cold and ancestral land. No bonds to let her stay. Her relatives were living in Leyawiin, half a continent away from Helgen. She wanted to go there, away from Skyrim and all the good and bad memories and regrets.

But it was an hard and dangerous journey, especially for a lone woman with an infant.

She was not a defenceless maiden, having done her share of fights and killing during her days as an adventurer. Ironically, it was during one of her travels she met the father of her sons, a fellow traveller and mercenary. But traveling to Leyawiin, on foot, with a _toddler_ on her back… that was just inviting death by the hands of the bandits that infested the major roadways in these troubled times.

Also it was winter, it was probable that all the passes had been covered in snow by now and become impenetrable.

The alternative would be a ship, but that would be an even longer journey. And more expensive, too. Fewer bandits, but not fewer dangers. Also, there were no ships that sailed from Skyrim to Cyrodiil. Not directly. She would have to change ships at least half a dozen times while traveling along the coast of continent, stopping to resupply in at least two of Tamriel's provinces.

If she was lucky.

High Rock could been safe enough, but then she would have to journey either to the Aldmeri Dominion or Hammerfell.

The Aldmeri Dominion was out of question. That meant no docks at the Summerset Isle, Valenwood or their client-state, Elsweyr. Better to avoid the Thalmor if at all possible.

Hammerfell was independent and devastated since the end of the war. Very few travellers and merchant ships went there. But should she have succeed in finding a passage through it, she could arrive in Cyrodiil, either with a caravan or by docking at the city of Anvil

On the other route, the eastern one, her first stop would logically be Morrowind, but that unfortunate land was in a chaotic situation since the explosion of the Red Mountain in Vvarderfell and all the invasions it had suffered.

Black Marsh had always been hostile to travellers and seceded from the Empire almost two centuries ago and after Umbriel appeared in the skies above Lilmoth...No. She would skip Black Marsh altogether. It wasn't a difficult choice.

But back to the children. She would think about how to travel later.

Who to choose? She knew her former husband loved them, otherwise she would have escaped in the night with both of them, jarl and priest be damned!

Should she take with her the healthier and stronger twin, more likely to survive the travel to her home? Or the frail one, hoping that his health would fare better in the warmer Cyrodill?

"Nines, forgive me," she murmured.

She made her choice.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

Two days later, she was on a carriage that would have taken her to the city of Solitude, the biggest commercial dock of the entire province. In her arms, sheltered from the cold by a layer of blankets and furs, was one of her sons.

From the doorstep of the house where she had lived for two years, her former husband was watching her departing with their other child in his arms.

As the carriage started to move, the two toddlers eyes met, just for a moment.

The twins would never see each other again.

At least, not while alive.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

**3 months later...  
**

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

In his long career as a shinobi, Sarutobi Hiruzen had seen a lot of things.

Most of them involved blood, pain, and mortal peril. He had fought in the first Shinobi World War, became Hokage before reaching twenty, led his village for more years than his precedessors and thanks to the assistance some of the greatest, more powerful jutsu known from the times of his generation, he was still alive to tell the tale.

So he should have been prepared for everything when his students finally come back from their first unsupervised, outside of Fire Country no less.

He had felt a sense of relief when he was told by an ANBU that his former genin team had returned to the village, weeks later than expected, but still unharmed.

He couldn't avoid to feeling a little proud. After all, his students had returned from their first mission in a foreign country, the Land of Tea, without any support from other allied forces.

That was a true testament to their potential and talent, and they were just twelve.

But nothing could prepare the Sandaime for what they carried inside his office to submit their mission report. Such a thing had never been rarely seen in the office of a Kage, and probably never in the hands of a twelve-years old girl.

In Tsunade's arms, covered by a small bundle of cloth, was a sleeping baby. And a very young one, too, if he could see correctly. Probably only a few months old.

He was slightly baffled by this. Even if he was sure that there was an explanation, it was really something he had never seen before.

His musings where interrupted by a soft cough from Jiraiya and the Hokage realized that he had tuned everything out for minutes out of shock.

"Welcome back," he said, hiding his embarrassment. "Report."

"Our mission in the Land of Tea was completed successfully and under the expected time, Sarutobi-sensei," Orochimaru said, coming closer to the desk and pulling out a scroll out of his backpack.

He accepted the scroll, but instead of opening it, he stared idly at his students, silently demanding an explanation.

"We are sorry for our tardiness," his pale student added hastily.

"You were supposed to arrive two weeks ago. I was almost at the point of sending a search party after you. What happened?" he asked, sparing a glance to the sleeping infant.

"The day before our departure, a violent storm hit the western coast of the Land of Tea," Tsunade answered. "It was very strong, and it lasted for days. Even for a shinobi, travelling in that climate would have been dangerous, so we decided to wait until it was over."

Sarutobi nodded. True, rumors of the massive storms coming from the ocean had reached even Konoha, but not one of those had mentioned how much damage they could cause.

"There was water everywhere!" Jiraiya complained. "A real flood! And we had to save everyone! That'll show them what an awesome ninja the Great Jiraiya is!"

There was quite a bit of pride in his loudest student's voice.

"We helped because we were _paid_ to, Jiraiya," Orochimaru sneered. "After we checked into an inn, word spread around and the local lord summoned us. He offered a substantial sum in exchange for our services in helping his people."

The boy rummaged a while into his rucksack and took out of it two items, a scroll and a large pouch.

"Here's the contract we arranged with him, and the money we gained."

"I would've helped even if that guy didn't ask us to," Jiraiya pouted.

Sarutobi wanted to approve of his white-haired student's altruism, but he decided to refrain. After that contract signed on the field would give an advantage in the region to Konoha, giving to the village a better reputation and as such, more potential clients.

And the unexpected money was good, too.

But he was reminded of the other matter at hand when the baby woke up and started to cry.

"And what about him? Or it is a her?" he asked, smirking a little at seeing not only Tsunade, but also Jiraiya trying to calm down the screaming little bundle of joy.

With little success. The Hokage noted how Orochimaru's left eyebrow had developed a small tick. Their trip back home must have been… interesting.

"It's a _he_, sensei," Tsunade clarified, as she slowly lulled the baby.

"When we finally started our journey," Orochimaru started explaining, "we decided to pass by the coast. The whole region had been devastated by tidal waves. We navigated through it with ease, but five days ago we spotted the ruins of a village on the coast. We would have just carried on, but…"

"But Jiraiya started running towards the ruined village, screaming that he saw something," Tsunade muttered, after having finally been able to stop the child's screaming.

"Well, there _was_ something! That's why I wanted to check!" Jiraiya whined loudly.

"You could have just said that instead of rushing in there! What if it was a trap?!" Tsunade yelled.

They all flinched when a loud wail erupted from the baby. All Sarutobi could do was sigh in frustration.

"There! Look! You made him cry again!" Jiraiya pointed out.

"It was your whining that made him sad, idiot!" Tsunade accused, throwing a jab at Jiraiya's head.

The crying only grew louder.

"Let's put him under a genjutsu!" Jiraiya said. "Something that will make him sleep."

"You can't use a genjutsu against someone this young, idiot! It could harm him!" Tsunade hissed, trying to calm the baby once again.

"And I didn't bear his _and your_ wails all the way back to the village to see such an idiotic thing happening," Orochimaru said, frowning to his white-haired teammate.

"I presume," the Hokage said, interrupting his students' antics, "that the 'interesting thing' Jiraiya saw was the baby?"

"No, sensei. It was a ship wreck," the white-haired boy stated matter-of-factly, like it was perfectly normal.

"Oh, well, of course," Sarutobi indulged. After all, the boy was still a twelve years old. "Would you tell me about this… ship?"

"It was _huge_! And it didn't look like any other ship I saw before! And, and―"

"The ship had obviously been slammed against the shoreline by the storm," Orochimaru interrupted. "And somehow it wrecked exactly in the ruins of the village's dock."

"Hey! I was gonna tell him that!"

"Jiraiya, don't yell!" Tsunade hushed him, whispering. "I finally managed to calm him down!"

"As Jiraiya said," Orochimaru continued, ignoring his two teammates, "the ship had a design unlike anything we ever saw before. And…"

After trailing off, the pale boy seemed to hesitate.

Orochimaru hesitating when giving him a mission report? Unheard of!

"Sensei, it was made of a wood I wasn't able to identify," his student admitted finally, looking ashamed for his ignorance.

Now, that was really unusual.

"Really now? Could you please describe the design of this ship?" he asked.

"It was long! Really long!" Jiraiya started, enthusiastically. "And there was a wooden animal at the… What's it called? Prow! There was this wooden horse at the prow of the ship!"

"It was a wooden _snake_, idiot," Orochimaru said, rolling his eyes.

"Nooo," the other boy denied. "You're saying that just because you're obsessed with those things."

"The ship had a single mast, sensei," Tsunade interrupted, before her teammates started a brawl in the middle of the Hokage's office. "And the sail probably had to be _really_ big. But the storm damaged it. There were also some shields along its sides, really big round shields."

"Yeah, they were awesome!" Jiraiya said, pumping his fist in the air. "They were taller than me!"

"Also, the entire ship was clearly heavily damaged by the storm and the impact with the dock," Orochimaru added.

Sarutobi remained silent for a few seconds, frowning because of his confusion. That didn't sound like any kind of ship he'd seen, or even heard of.

Had it not been for the baby, he would have already lit his pipe.

"So, you just saw this unusual ship? What happened after that?"

"We arrived besides Jiraiya, who was just looking at the ship wreck with wide eyes, standing right there in the open," Tsunade said, giving a poignant glance at her teammate, who was now massaging his head.

No doubt Tsunade had clobbered the boy when they had reached him. That would have been typical.

"As they started to argue, we heard a waling cry from above the ship," Orochimaru said. He launched a brief look at the baby.

"I see," Sarutobi said. He had already figured out that much. "And what happened after that?"

"I jumped on the ship!" Jiraiya proclaimed cockily.

Of course he did. Always so brash and impulsive...

"Even though we told him not to," Tsunade muttered.

"Hey, there was nobody around!"

"It could have been a trap," Orochimaru pointed out.

"But it wasn't!"

"We could have all died, had that be the case," the pale boy replied.

"But we didn't!" Jiraiya insisted, defending his case no matter what.

"And what was on that ship?" Sarutobi asked, giving his students a disapproving frown to stop the bickering. "Besides your new… _responsibility_, of course."

"Our _what?_" the children cried in unison.

"Kidding, kidding," he said with a mirthful tone. Children these days would believe everything. "But now stop bickering and tell me what did you find on that ship."

Jiraiya and Tsunade exchanged glances. Apparently they didn't know how to explain what they had seen.

"Bodies, sensei," Orochimaru said. Trust him, to be so blunt. "The ship's bridge was littered with bodies."

"Mmh, I see," he muttered. He really wished he could smoke a little. "I suppose they died because of the storm?"

"No, sensei," Tsunade replied. "There were… significant signs of combat. Most of the bodies showed multiple lacerations, and there were various weapons laying around."

"There was blood everywhere!" Jiraiya said dramatically.

"_Most_ of them?" Hiruzen asked, ignoring the boy's outburst.

"There were signs of jutsu being used, too!" Jiraiya proclaimed.

Well, that changed everything. Were the other villages planning something?

His eyes narrowed.

"Were any shinobi among the dead?"

"No, sensei. We didn't find any ninja equipment, not even a kunai or hitai-ate," Orochimaru replied promptly. His student reached for another scroll inside his backpack. "We have stored the items of interest we've found on the ship here. I thought you would have wanted to examine them, they're quite… unusual."

Sarutobi accepted that scroll, too. Sparing a single glance at his students whose faces were full of expectation, he opened it.

The stored contents cluttered in a cacophony of metal all over his desk. Swords shaped unlike any katana he had ever seen composed the majority of the metallic mess that was covering his precious paperwork. There were also axes, maces, and other offensive tools scattered among the blades.

He reached for one of the weapons, and unsheathed it, examining the double-edged blade that departed from the vaguely cross-like guard. The metal showed some sign of rust, probably due to having been left uncared on the sea for days. The hilt's leather felt rough under his hands, and the weapon, even if heavy, looked well balanced.

"Sensei, look at this one! The steel is really hard!" Tsunade said enthusiastically, indicating one that was almost on the end of the pile.

"Steel tends to be hard, Tsunade-chan," he said as he felt the blade's edge with his finger.

"Senseeeiii! I mean that its steel is _harder_! And it doesn't even rust!"

Frowning in confusion, the Hokage put the exotic-looking sword in place, deciding to examine this 'harder steel' her student was talking about.

Shuffling around the various metal objects, he noted that among them there were also small jewels, pieces of armour, books and other mundane items, and under the whole mass, one of those round shields the kids had told him about. It was made of wood, with a metal border, and it looked really thick. A strangely painted animal was sported on it.

On the top of the shield, was laying the strangest sword he had ever seen, besides the Raijin no Ken that used to belong to the Nidaime Hokage.

The sword didn't have a scabbard, so he could see the exposed blade. The weapon was a beautiful black color, like a sliver of midnight.

The blade, the guard, and the hilt seemed to have been forged from a single metal piece. If he had thought that the other sword was exotic, this one looked utterly alien.

He grasped the sword and slowly lifted it, surprised by how heavy it was. The metal was cold, and looking at it from a closer distance, he realized that it was not steel. It was a metal unknown to him.

He had never seen anything like this before, _indeed_.

Where was the ship from? And the child, of course. There was also the matter of the child. Speaking of which...

"Where did you find him?" he asked, carefully lowering the weapon on the rest of the pile.

"We didn't find him immediately, it took us a few minutes," Jiraiya started, with a sad tone. "He was bound in a blanket, besides the body of a woman. We think… that she was the baby's mother."

"They had the same hair," Tsunade confirmed. "And she was embracing him, when she died."

"There were a dozen of bodies around her, too," Jiraiya continued. "She had killed all of them, using only a sword—"

"What sword was that?" the Hokage asked. He had a strange forebonding feeling.

"The cool black one, sensei. Oh, and she had used at least a fire jutsu."

Sarutobi eyes widened, and his gazed posed on the child.

Was the little boy the spawn of a shinobi? But if his students hadn't find any identification symbol or equipment… maybe the woman was a missing-nin that had decided to not show her status using a scratched hitai-ate?

But she couldn't have been one of the attackers, otherwise why would she have taken with her a baby, one that seemed almost a newborn?

What village could have she come from, to find herself on a ship of unknown origin that crashed on the western coast of the Land of Tea? Who had attacked them? It couldn't be a hunter-nin's doing, because the body of the woman hadn't been destroyed to preserve her village's secrets.

Pirates, maybe? Pirates with a missing-nin among their midst, that attacked the ship before, or even during the storm?

"Sensei?" his students said, trying to gain his attention.

Blinking his eyes, Sarutobi realized that he had doze off again, lost in his thoughts. He glanced at his students, and saw that another scroll was offered to him, this time by Tsunade.

"We have stored the remains of his mother too, sensei," said the girl, gesturing with her head towards the baby. "We thought that our medics could have examined her, to see if they could understand something about her."

Sarutobi knew that Tsunade was referring to the potential secrets that the body could hide within it. He nodded grimly. An autopsy would have probably revealed something about the origin of their mysterious woman.

"How long ago do you think the ship's crew died?" he asked.

"Difficult to say," she said, biting her lips. "It was pretty cold, so that may have slowed down the decaying process of the bodies, but I would say… at least two days. No more than three, judging by his state when we found the baby."

"Thank you Tsunade, now let's focus again on the child… how was he when did you find him?"

"On the brink of death," she said. "He had spent spent all that time in the cold, without food. I immediately started an emergency treatment, but to save him I almost suffered from chakra exhaustion."

"Once the child was no longer in danger of death, we had to stop her," Orochimaru clarified, causing Tsunade to be a little embarrassed.

"And she fell asleep soon," Jiraiya added, adding more reasons to Tsunade's chagrin. "The baby, too."

"And what happened next?" Sarutobi asked.

"We… disposed of the other bodies," the white-haired boy said sadly.

"Only because you were so damn stubborn about it," Orochimaru said, crossing his arms.

"Hey, snake bastard! We couldn't leave them to the animals!"

"Yes, we could. We lost time with that stupid task," the pale boy replied.

"But Tsunade was unconscious, we would have lost time anyway!" Jiraiya insisted.

"Hey!" the girl protested, offended by that remark.

"How did you dispose of them?" Sarutobi asked, wondering how his two pupils had managed such a grim duty.

To his surprise, the two boys, instead of answering immediately, looked at each other's eyes, hesitating.

"We burned them with the ship," they said in unison.

Sarutobi remained silent for a moment, before finally nodded approvignly. Destroying the remains had probably eliminated all the evidence of its presence, and probably left Konoha as the only Hidden Village that knew of its existence. That way, only Konoha would have gained from this strange encounter.

"After a few hours once Tsunade was able to travel, we departed immediately for Konoha," Orochimaru continued.

"Which I think was a _bad_ idea," Jiraiya murmured. "We could have found a place to leave the baby, further inland. Instead, we had to take him all the way back to the Fire Country."

"I was the team leader, Jiraiya. It was not your decision to make. We've already talked about this."

"And what decision would this be?" Sarutobi asked, smothering another argument between the boys before it could start.

Jiraiya looked away, apparently disapproving Orochimaru's call.

"The baby is obviously an orphan with no ties that we know of, sensei. Searching and finding a family that would adopt him would have taken time. And since the region had just been flooded—"

"The research for such a family would have probably been unsuccessful, yes," he interrupted. "But why take him here to Konoha, Orochimaru? You could have just found a family or an orphanage… even a temple, here in Fire Country."

"Because Konoha needs more shinobi, sensei," the boy answered.

He nodded, understanding what his student meant. It was not exactly an orthodox recruiting method, but it had already happened in the past.

And the mother of the baby had been obviously some kind of shinobi, even if her origins were unknown. They probably would never know.

And if the boy had inherited some talent from her mother…

"So be it," he proclaimed. "The child will be placed under the care of our orphanage, and when he will be old enough, he will enter the Academy. It will be then, that we will see if your decision was a good one, Orochimaru."

"Thanks, sensei," his student said, bowing slightly.

Jiraiya, instead, pouted.

"Now, what is his name?" he asked, smiling.

There was a long silence, as his students looked at each other's eyes, their expressions a mix of embarrassment and realization.

"We… we didn't think of giving him one, sensei," Tsunade admitted with embarrassment.

"What? You've travelled with him for days. Surely you should have given a name to him? After all, you had to call him _something_ when you spoke about him, right?" he asked, hiding his puzzlement.

"We called him 'baby'... Wasn't that enough?" Jiraiya asked, honestly confused.

For being so talented shinobi, his students were so clueless about some things. Once again, he had to remind himself that they were only twelve years old.

"Give him to me, Tsunade," he said, sighing softly as he spread his arms towards her.

The girl came closer to him, passing around the desk, and Sarutobi accepted the infant with a sense of caring that seemed completely out of place with an experienced killer sitting besides a pile of sharp weapons.

The baby didn't protest as he was gently lulled by the Sandaime's arms.

Jiraiya tried to suppress a snicker, and failed miserably.

"Something on your mind, Jiraiya?" the older man asked, caressing the child's spiky blond hair.

"No, sensei," his student replied quickly. "Sorry sensei."

"Good. Now, let's see…" he said, examining the child's features. "He was taken to us by the storm that hit the coast of the continent, mmh… waves and winds."

"He was taken here by _us_, sensei," Jiraiya muttered. That earned him a slap on the head, courtesy of Tsunade.

"And you said that you found him in the ruins of a dock, right?" Sarutobi asked, without reprimanding the girl's action.

"Yeah! You could say that the ship managed to dock, no matter what!" the white-haired boy laughed, amused by his own terrible joke.

Nobody else was laughing. Tsunade gave him another slap, and Jiraiya stopped laughing.

"I've got it," Sarutobi announced, grinning. "You will be known as Namikaze Minato."

"That's a dumb name, sensei," Jiraiya whined. Tsunade slapped him one more time.

The now named Namikaze Minato giggled in the Sandaime Hokage's arms.

* * *

**A\N: That's all for this opening chapter, folks.**

**Don't worry, I'll keep writing my other stories too. It's just that this was staring at me with puppy dog eyes…Review! Reviews are love!**

**Omake, suggested by Duesal10!**

"And what was on that ship?" Sarutobi asked, giving his students a disapproving frown to stop the bickering. "Besides your new… _responsibility_, of course."

"Our _what_?" the children cried in unison.

Sarutobi nodded. "You found him, you brought him here. Now he's yours to look after."

"But sensei, we're just kids!" Tsunade's pout could have melted stone.

The Sandaime would not be denied, however.

"You took on the burden of adulthood the day you accepted your hitai-ate. Age is irrelevant."

"But sensei! I'm too young to have a son!"

"Shut up, Jiraiya! This is your fault!"

As his three new parents started bickering, the baby exploded once again in a loud cry.


	2. Where a last stand is held

**A\N: I do not own Naruto or The Elder Scrolls. Obviously.  
**

**Beta: Duesal Bladesinger. But ****Ekusukallybaa****and AlmostElectric checked it out, too.  
**

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:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:**  
**

The door opened slowly, letting the freezing air from outside enter in the inn's common room.  
A tall figure donning a hooded cape and sporting a long walking staff entered, and closed the door behind him, shivering for the cold.

It was a small building, this inn. Little more than a house turned rest stop for any travellers who crossed the road that cut through the Hjaalmarch.

The man—he was clearly a man since there was a beard attached to the chin that peeked through the hood—knew he could have travelled further before the sun set, but he was tired. He was still a day from crossing the Karth River and arriving at Solitude, and he wanted to rest on a warm bed for once.

He quickly scanned the inn, and was surprised to see that he was the only customer there.

The innkeeper was a woman in her thirties, probably the late half. Pretty, but he was not in the mood.

He saluted her with a gesture of his hand and she seemed to relax a bit. She had actually seemed afraid of his presence.

It was only expected, given the tattered weapons and armour dangling from his belt were visible from under his half-cape: a simple dagger that he carried as a last resort weapon and as a tool, and his trusted axe.

Not exactly a visitor that inspired tranquillity in a lone woman.

He decided to ignore her. Maybe that would calm her down. With long strides, he reached the burning hearth placed in the middle of the room. He left his backpack fall on the floor, placed his staff besides it and pulled a seat closer to him and sat there, enjoying the warm fire. After a few minutes, he started feeling much better.

A Nord that hated the cold. Funny.

He finally spoke to the woman, lowering his hood. She gazed for just a second on his blue eyes, her gaze roaming across the scars that ran over his right cheek, starting from his cheekbone.

A little souvenir left to him by a close encounter with a hagraven.

"Something hot, please. And mead," he added. "I can pay."

The woman nodded hesitantly and went into the kitchen to fetch a meal for her customer. Why was she so nervous? He hadn't threatened her, right?

She returned soon, carrying a tray with a full mug, a loaf of bread and a steaming bowl of soup. Apple and cabbage, by the smell.

Why did she look so afraid?

He thanked her and took the tray from her hands. She returned behind the counter and observed him from time to time.

He still hadn't touched his meal.

Why did she seem so afraid?

He took the mead. The sweet alcohol was erupting from it. He lifted the mug, foretasting it. It was his favourite beverage, after all.

He stopped when he saw the woman expression.  
Why was she so afraid?

Wait.

What was this smell?

He putted down the mug, looking at it.

Yes, she was very afraid, now.

"This is a trap, isn't it?" he sighed.

The innkeeper's eyes widened. It that was all he needed.

He rose from his seat. The mug fell down.

The woman escaped to the kitchen, screaming for help.

He ran after her. She was reaching for a knife. He didn't give her a chance.

With a jump, he grabbed her and pinned her on the wall, keeping her firm in place with his arms.

"Poison. Deadly. Rare. _Not your idea_," he hissed. It wasn't a question.

The woman seemed on the point of pissing herself. She managed to nod.

"Who did this?"

"You _know_ who," she said, starting to cry.

Yes, he knew who. But if they were able to plan something like this, in a random tavern he was just passing through, that would mean...

That would mean that they had been following him for days. Weeks, even.

But that was not possible. His journey to Solitude had been a secret, and he had travelled for days in the wilderness, avoiding villages and cities and stopping only in their hideouts.

How could it be—

He widened his eyes in realization. Someone had betrayed them. Someone had betrayed the Blades.

Faint noises of metal rustling could be heard, coming from somewhere outside of the inn.

He sighed again, closing his eyes. Then slowly, gently, he let go of the woman.

She immediately fell on the ground, sobbing, her head lowered.

"How many?"

"Too many," replied the innkeeper quickly. "Even for you."

He undid the lace of his mantle. It would hinder him in the impending fight.

"We'll see. Hide," he said to the sobbing woman, leaving the kitchen. He left his mantle on the counter, and paid for his uneaten meal.

What a waste of mead.

The blond man grabbed his staff, and extracted a colored vial from one of his pouches. Opening it with only one hand, he swallowed the foul liquid in a single gulp.

As he tossed the empty phial away, he could already feel the fortifying effect of the potion in his body.

He opened the door and left the inn.

Thalmor.

Dozens of them.

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

_Our Hero, our Hero, claims a warrior's heart...  
_

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

As he ordered to his mer to surround the entrance of the inn, Ederion knew something had gone wrong.

If the stupid woman who they had coerced into playing the role of the innkeeper hadn't called them yet, then their target had suspected something. Probably he had killed her; she was expendable after all.

That's what Ederion would have done, in his target's place.

Ederion counted among the younger Justiciar present in Skyrim, but he was one of the more cunning and dangerous. When he was offered this mission, he accepted without a second thought.

Should he complete it successfully, it would be a great boost to his career.

Following their target in the wilderness without being detected while leading so many soldiers had been a difficult task, but he had been able to do it.

He was the best of the best, after all.

The various elves had barely finished to get in position, that the door to the wooden shed opened.

His soldiers tensed immediately. A shield wall was raised, spears were pointed towards the entrance, and arrows were nocked.

A man left the building, walking like he was just going for a stroll.

Whispers started among the ranks. Even if the soldiers under his command were not all veterans, they weren't green either. But they all had heard the stories of the Dragonborn.

The sworn enemy of the Aldmeri Dominion, and of the Thalmor especially.

The warrior who had slain dragons, men and mer alike during Skyrim's Civil War.

The right hand of the gods-damned Blades' leader.

The boogieman that the elven mothers had started using for scaring their children, so that they would eat all the soup at dinner.

In the eyes of his mer, the man out there was a legend.

Ederion was just looking at the man, instead. A fool, weak man that looked a little more than a tattered vagrant, with a scarred face, an old armour and a walking _stick_.

True, he _was _the Dovahkiin, but he was getting older now. The man had passed his physical peak at least ten years ago, and with time he would just grow weaker and die.

But still, it was always best to tie up loose ends. After all, he had proven quite a threat in the past, and he could possibly keep being one for decades.

The Justiciar was sure that almost all the man's biggest achievement were just exaggerations. Tales overstated by the bards that seemed to _infest_ this forsaken barbarian country, the most dangerous thing about the man standing before them wasn't his battle prowess: it was his reputation.

He and his few companions represented the single greatest resistance the Aldmeri Dominion had to face since before the Great War, and that would not be tolerated anymore.

He raised his hand, ready to give the signal for the archers. Today, the Dragonborn's legend would come to an end.

But as he was savoring the idea of turning the man to a pincushion with only a gesture of his hand, when something that he had never expected happened, which made him hesitate.

The man let go of his staff, who fell on the frozen ground. He remained there, unmoving, looking at the company of soldiers in front of him.

Then, slowly, he raised his open palms and placed them behind his head.

Murmurs could be heard among the mer once again, but this time they were caused by shock and surprise.

The Dragonborn was surrendering.

Ederion smirked, signaling to the archers to stand down.

The man knew he could not win here. Not against this many trained soldiers.

Ederion's mind was abuzz. If he could manage to take that man alive… as his _prisoner_ and back to Alinor in chains…

The glory… he could already _feel_ it.

No.

No, the Dragonborn was too dangerous to be just kept prisoner, and executed into the capital's main plaza.

But the glory could still be his.

After all, what was the difference between taking prisoner one of the greatest enemies of the Dominion, and bringing back his head instead?

He advanced towards the surrendering man, slowly extracting the sword. The man was just standing there, looking at the ground. Ederion came closer.

He was going to be the one who did it, _he_ was going to be the slayer of the Dragonborn!

"Conrad Harissen," he spoke, full of righteous glee. "By the authority given to me from the Thalmor, for the crime of being a Talos worshipper, and for your multiple aggressions against the Aldmeri Dominion, I _condemn_ you to—"

"**FUS—"**

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

_I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes..._

_With a voice wielding power of the ancient nord art_

_Believe, believe the Dragonborn comes...  
_

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

"—**RO DAH!"** he _shouted_, watching the Justiciar soar through the air and finally slam against the shields of the Thalmor soldiers with a stupefied expression plastered on his face.

Sucker.

Too bad the elf hadn't hit one of those spears.

Conrad quickly knelt, grabbing his fallen staff and avoiding the few arrows that the archers who weren't completely shocked had managed to shoot.

He'd better find a solution for them. Fast.

Raising his right hand, he quickly channelled his power, moving his fingers through the necessary phases. Flames flickered between them, caressing his palm.

Various fireballs departed from his extended hand, exploding on the Thalmor's shield wall. This resulted in dozens of pained screams, a few dead soldiers, and smoke.

Lots and lots of smoke which blocked the archers' line of fire, giving him a few seconds to formulate a strategy.

Running away was not an option. The terrain around the inn was almost completely composed of snowed plains. The salt marshes of the region were too far, and he would have an hard time losing such a force among them. If he wasn't killed by the archers while he made a run for it.

Levitation was not an option either because he would have just made himself a flying target, instead of a running one.

To fight was the only choice he had.

To annihilate was his only option.

As arrows sailed over his head, he kept moving, still half-crouched.

With precise movements of his free hand, he twisted the very fabric of reality for a brief moment, summoning an ally from a different plane of existence. A being made of flames, its form vaguely feminine, materialized besides him. It was hovering a foot above the ground, looking at Conrad with anticipation, waiting for its master's instructions.

"Kill the archers!" Conrad yelled. The atronach departed immediately, unleashing a jet of flaming fury against the soldiers.

Conjuring the daedra after that volley of fireballs had taken its toll on his magicka reserves,he could already feel the effects of the potion, refilling his spent mystical energy steadily.

Getting up, he used the few recuperated energies to weave a defensive barrier around his body. Once the protection was set, he sprinted towards the Thalmor's barely-visible lines, taking his axe from his belt.

He emerged from the smoke, right in front of an Altmer who clumsy attempted to stab him with his spear. A simple spin, and the charging Dragonborn knocked the weapon away with his staff, driving the blade of his axe deep inside the elf's unprotected neck.

The soldier died almost instantly, and with a twist of his right hand he freed the weapon, sending the corpse slamming into his comrades' ranks.

He pressed on, breaking the skull of a shocked Thalmor with another swing, splitting his helm in two. He did a hastened pirouette to side-step the lunge of his enraged companion, while channelling his power into his staff, shooting an hail of lighting into the spearmen—err, spearmer.

They fell, fuming from the joints of their armours, still twitching even after their death by electrocution.

The confusion among the Thalmor soldiers was bloody hilarious.

Too bad it didn't last for long.

Conrad ducked, feeling a broadsword cutting the air above him, where his head had been a split-second ago. He lunged the sturdy oaken staff in the middle of the warrior's legs, and _twisted_, tripping him and making him fall on the ground on his back.

Before the elf could even try to get up, Conrad had already brutally struck his chest with his axe three times.

"Is this all you've got?!" he questioned as he dislodged the weapon from the fallen's rib cage, grinning at the golden-plated soldiers that were surrounding him.

The response he received was an arrow that would have hit him in the chest, hadn't it been stopped by the magical protection around him. A faint flash of light, and the projectile bounced harmlessly on the ground.

Apparently, the flame atronach was not doing such a great job at distracting the lot of them, since there were so many.

He couldn't afford to stay in the open, but the middle of a melee, even the Thalmor would not risk to hit one of their own.

With a mighty battle cry, he charged his enemies, that were waiting for him not far away, spears raised.

He waited until the last instant, then he _shouted _again. The blast of the Unrelenting Force opened a wide hole in the middle of their ranks, sending the soldiers in the front flying backwards as the others staggered to maintain their footing.

Running directly among the prone Thalmor, stepping on them, he quickly hit the dirt with his staff one, two, three, four times.

Each time the end of the staff struck the ground, a different elemental rune was created on the spot. He had barely the time to outrun them as they exploded one after another, triggered by the movements of the dazed warriors.

As flames, bursts of cold, discharges of electricity and rocks blasted out of the very ground beneath him, he lunged forward, without looking back.

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

_It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes_

_Beware, beware the Dragonborn comes...  
_

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

A loud explosion, or maybe a series of explosion in close succession, was the first thing he heard clearly when he was able to breathe normally again.

Ederion had been almost knocked out from the impact against the soldiers under his command, and was suffering from aches on his whole back.

Groaning in pain—something that ashamed him greatly—he rolled on his flank, trying to get a better footing.

He looked around. He had lost his sword during his unexpected flight, and he hated being unarmed in a dangerous situation.

But his blade was not what he found, searching around from where he was laying.

What he saw instead was a _man_ that had just _slaughtered _a good third of his soldiers.

How was this possible? Was it that difficult for those incompetents fools to kill a simple _human_?!

He should have ordered to bring him down with multiple volleys of arrows.

The Justiciar felt someone grabbing his arm, and pulling him up. Sparing it a glance, he recognized one of his trusted battlemages.

"Don't touch me!" he shouted as he slapped away the armored hand. "And go to kill that lowborn _bastard_!"

Instead of joining the melee, setting him on fire or wasting him with bolts of lighting, the battlemages looked at each other, hesitantly.

"Forgive me, my lord. But shouldn't we try to eliminate the target w—"

"Just _DO IT_!" he snapped, almost frothing in his frustration. "_DO IT, DO IT DO IT_!"

Intimidated by his sudden explosion, the elite spellcasters unsheathed their weapons and jogged towards the battle, spilling out in a fan formation. Their march was a solid line of metal and magic, ready to destroy the enemy.

"AND SOMEBODY DESTROY THAT DAEDRA," Ederion ordered, not really caring about them anymore. "I WANT THOSE ARCHERS READY!"

He was on the point of ordering someone, no matter who, to fetch his weapon, when he heard it.

A cry of pain, from the fight. And not an elven one.

Snapping his head in the direction of the combat, he saw that the Dragonborn had been wounded, a slash had struck true in his arm, in spite of the armour the man was wearing.

Now he was staggering, his staff lost, swinging his axe to keep the lancers at bay while walking backwards. Crimson rivulets were clearly visible on his wounded limb.

Ederion smiled.

No matter how formidable the man was, he was still just a man, a man fighting a great number of trained soldiers.

Victory would be his.

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

_For the darkness has passed_

_And the legend yet grows_

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

"Fuck off, you murdering _BASTARDS!_" Conrad yelled, as he killed another Thalmor with a crude blow of his weapon.

The last jab had shattered his magical protection, and the spear's sharp end had left a deep gash on his forearm, causing him to let go of his staff. The limb felt so heavy, after the wound he had received, but he was still able to move it, and clench a fist.

Which was good.

The fact that he was surrounded, and he had lost momentum… that was not good. The trick with the four runes had cost him almost all his magicka reserves, so frying the pansy elves was out of question.

The effect of the potion he had he had drunk before leaving the inn was almost due, and it wasn't replenishing his magical energies like before.

He fumbled on his pouches, the blood on his palm rendering the leather slippery.

An elven warrior, noticing his lapse of concentration, lunged towards him, spear pointed at Conrad's belly.

He side-stepped, batting the polearm away with the blunt part of the axe. The spear's point hit the ground, piercing it, and he kicked the Altmer with all his strength in the groin.

As the elf's face contorted in a pained expression, as knelt, gasping for air. Conrad finished him with an horizontal slash aimed to the mer's cheek, and finally retrieved another vial from his pouch.

It was one of his weakest potions, though. In his haste, as he stumbled with his pouches, he had opened the wrong one.

Well, beggars couldn't be choosers.

He swallowed the potion in a single, short swill, just in time to notice another incoming attacker, charging at him and yelling like a madman.

He wouldn't be able to dodge, this time, so he reacted reflexively.

He threw his axe, that plunged its head completely into the elf's chest, breaking the armour. The Altmer just stared at it with a stupefied expression, before finally collapsing.

"Come on, let's rush him now!" someone among the Thalmor lines said. "He's unarmed!"

"Unarmed my _ASS_!" he cussed at them, gnashing his teeth while unsheathing his dagger with his left hand.

Seeing that his defense was only a glorified steel knife, they charged in unison.

Idiots.

Conrad went to meet their assault, dagger ready while he raised his free hand in the air. He could feel his inner power, feeble as it was after too much usage.

He called upon it, and a sword appeared in his hand, conjured in the same way he had summoned the atronach. The newly created blade descended, and daedric metal met moonstone.

Moonstone lost, and elven blood splattered on Conrad's metal breastplate.

The retribution for this latest kill was not late to come.

He tightened his grip on the two weapons, and he moved, like a whirlwind, dodging, parrying and redirecting the incoming strikes. The few ones he couldn't, he had to count on his armour to protect him.

Conrad didn't restrict himself to idle defense. He moved the sword in wide, powerful swings, while stabbing quickly with the shorter blade every time he saw an opening.

More and more Thalmor fell under them.

Two spearmer tried to attack him from both sides at the same time, but he just averted their thrusts with a simple turn of his body and rotating his sword.

They collided with each other, losing balance. The daedric blade beheaded the first, while the dagger punctured the second's lungs.

He freed the shorter blade with a strong pull, doing a low sweep with the conjured weapon at the height of another elf's legs, cutting deep. The warrior fell, wailing in pain.

Conrad helped ease his pain, with the courtesy of a a dagger in his eye socket. As he wrested the weapon from there, he could hear a squelching noise.

"Come on now!" he taunted. "Who's ne—"

He wasn't able to finish his question, since a fire bolt exploded on his torso, sending him back, sprayed on the ground. The center of his breastplate had become almost red-hot, and his beard had been singed.

It hurt like Oblivion.

Who was the asshole he had to kill, now?

He forced himself to stand, and saw the asshole, and his battle brethren.

An entire squadron of battlemages.

It had been years since the last time he had fought a squadron of battlemages.

He grinned, finally on his feet.

"**TIID KLO UL!"**

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

_You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come..._

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

Ederion could barely believe his own eyes.

A part of him started to realize why the songs portrayed the Dragonborn as someone able to do such amazing feats, and he had to see on his own the human's battle prowess.

The Nord had made short work of everyone who had tried to bring him down so far.

But now...now it looked like he was not even _trying_, and he was cutting them down like a sickle through weed.

He moved at an unnatural speed, none of his movements seemed to be wasted, and each swing of his weapons slayed a elf.

It was then, when the last of the spearmer fell and their single enemy started to kill the battlemages with ease, that Ederion understood.

That was not a man.

It was a monster.

And he had to be dealt as such.

He looked through the surviving archers. There were still quite a lot of them, but they weren't able to deal with a simple fire atronach.

Pathetic.

Walking towards them, he snatched a bow from the hands of the first he reached. Without stopping, he took an arrow from the second.

In a single, fluid motion, he nocked the arrow and released the string.

The projectile pierced the flaming daedra's neck, who shrieked in pain, losing quickly physical consistency and finally disappearing.

He tossed rudely the weapon to the archer he took it from, not really caring if the mer caught it or not.

He had to prepare his trap, and quickly.

"Listen to my orders now, and prepare, we'll have only one chance!" Ederion yelled at the stupefied bowmer. "I don't care how _many _of you have died! _KILL_ the motherfucker!"

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin_

_Naal ok zin los vahriin_

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

Parry, deflect, thrust in the stomach.

Slowing _time_ itself with that dragon shout and exploiting the openings that normally he would not be able to see could be interpreted like cheating from others, or playing dirty.

Side-step, hack, stab in the neck.

Which was fine for Conrad. He had learned decades ago that there was no 'honorable combat', especially against an higher number of opponents.

Feint, slash, puncture liver.

And being able to dodge with ease the incoming spells of the battlemages he was butchering was a pretty nifty bonus. No matter how slow the time flowed, flames and ice shards still hurt if they touched you.

Slice, thrust, sink both blades into an armored chest, watch as it erupts with blood.

Turning slightly, Conrad saw one elf going for his head, warhammer raised and ready to strike.

At the worst possible moment, time chose to start flowing normally again.

Conrad _swore._

He barely avoided having his head smashed in, but the weapon managed to impact with his shoulder instead.

The blow was enough to make him stagger, desperately grasping for some semblance of balance.

The battlemage didn't lose the chance. Moving on his flank, he slammed a second blow, harder than the previous, straight into Conrad's back.

Conrad fell to his knees, gasping for air and barely able to hold his weapons.

He felt the steps of the heavily-plated spellcasters behind him come to a stop. The Thalmor was probably raising the hammer again, this time for a finishing blow.

Was this the way all the dragons he had slain felt, before the end?

He felt despair claw at his soul.

Was this how his journey would come to an end? Killed by a no-name servant of his enemies, on a snowy field littered with bodies?

Well, this was a surefire way to the gates of Sovngarde. Again, and this time forever.

At least there would be mead there.

He heard a slight scrape on the snow behind him. The Thalmor had shifted his position to land better hit.

It was coming.

No.

_No._

He wouldn't die like this. He _refused_ to die like this!

He stabbed blindly behind him, hoping for the best. A pained groan was his answer.

Conrad had no clue what he managed to hit, but he didn't give a damn. He twisted the blade and _pulled_.

The action was rewarded by the sensation of warm blood spraying his hand, and by a loud, metallic thud.

Only two battlemages left, a few feet from him.

As he got on his feet, the two Altmer looked at each other. They nodded, and started to circle him from different directions, charging offensive spells

He would not be able to reach one of them without being hit by the other's magic.

But he could try.

He lunged forward, running on the snow and reading his right arm for a killing swing.

That was the moment when the daedric sword dispelled, having reached the limit of its existence.

There was no time to conjure another weapon, so he had to improvise.

Closing his right hand in a fist, he punched the battlemage in the face. The opening in the helm was wide enough, but he had probably broke his pinkie because of the contact with the solid metal that framed the mer's face.

It really hurt, and he cried in a mix of rage and pain. He was satisfied to have broken the Altmer's nose, though.

The battlemage faltered, dazed by the blow.

Conrad could feel the other one, feel as the magic hummed in the air. He was a short distance away, finishing his spell.

Grabbing the dazed Altmer's neck, so hard that he was choking him, Conrad turned, pushing the elf into the path of the deadly magic.

Ice shards stabbed the mer, and he fell to the ground.

The last of the battlemages was not long in joining his bretheren past the void when Conrad's dagger soared into the air and buried itself in his eye.

Lucky shot.

Turning around, Conrad realized that he was standing alone in the middle of the bodies, in the open, with no weapons, and standing right in front of the remaining archers.

Almost twenty of them, and their arrows were already knocked and aimed at him.

Stupid daedra, it only had one job!

But there was no time for that.

The Justiciar gave an order.

The bows shot.

Conrad raised his left arm, once again calling upon his power.

He hadn't enough magicka or time to create a protective barrier like before, so he opted for the next best thing.

A shield, a daedric one, appeared already strapped to his forearm.

He had no magicka left, and his mind was slightly foggy as a result. Still, he was able to raise the shield to protect his head and chest from the incoming arrows.

The projectiles bounced off the hard metal surface, becoming virtually useless as they lost their momentum.

Too bad the shield couldn't protect his legs.

One hit his left leg, but it was the right that had it worse, and various arrows snaked their way into his muscle and bone.

Screaming in anguish, he fell on his side.

The Thalmor were cheering, especially the Justiciar

So, _this_ was how he was going to die? What a joke! The great and almighty Dragonborn, slayer of Alduin World-Eater, brought down by an arrow to the knee.

_Pathetic._

They were coming.

He had maybe one shout at disposal, two if he strained his throat.

Unable to move. No weapons. No magicka left. Bleeding from the wounds...

Aye, he was screwed.

Unless he used _that_ shout.

The one he _hated_ using. Mostly because the place from which he called that power from gave him the creeps.

But when the alternative was having your body paraded through the Aldmeri Dominion as some elf's trophy...

He saw the Justiciar picking up a discared sword from the ground and looking at him like if his head was the best thing the he had ever seen.

Conrad's rage erupted, and his dragon blood sang.

"**DUR NEH VIIR!"**

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

_Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal_

_Ahrk fin norok paal graan_

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

That morning, as he marched in the snowy region, at the head of his soldiers, Ederion was expecting an easy task.

Collect body of a deadly poisoned man, a criminal, bring him home, and claim the glory.

Then, said man had left the tavern, and started his single-handed slaughter.

And Ederion had got frustrated.

So he had sacrificed more and more soldiers, but nothing worked.

His frustration had deepened.

He had even been tossed away by one of those shouts! Humiliated in front of his own soldiers!

Screw that, he was FURIOUS!

And FINALLY, the Dragonborn was hit with a volley of arrows. As it should have been from the very beginning.

As he had saw the fallen warrior gasping on the ground, he had started to move closer, willing to give the final blow himself.

Then, there was another of those gods-damned shouts.

A black and purple sphere of ethereal flames swirled in front of the Dragonborn's prone form.

Then, the stench of death and putrefaction.

And then, Ederion and his bowmer were staring at a dragon.

The Justiciar was speechless, shocked beyond belief.

The plan was _fucked._

Some of the archers screamed and made a run for it, mad with terror.

This, unfortunately for them, caught the dragon's attention.

With a beat of leathery wings and a foul miasma, the massive creature was on them.

That was the last straw.

All the remaining elves, all but Ederion, started running, trying to escape the dragon's wrath.

Ederion had failed.

He had put his reputation on the line with this mission, taking with him an entire company of trained soldiers and even a battlemage squadron.

And now none of them would make it back alive.

There was no way in Mundus that he would be able to survive to the _thing_ that was soaring in the sky, freezing the fleeing soldiers with his breath, or assaulting them on the ground.

He heard the sound of bones breaking, of armour and organs squelching as a one thing under the creature's jaws.

No way _he_ would survive the summoned dragon.

Wait.

Summoned?

The dragon… it was a summoned creature!

Summoned creatures followed some rules, ways how the magic that conjured them worked.

For example, unless a ritual or something else was used, the summoning would not be permanent.

And if the summoner was killed, the conjuring spell would cease, and the creature would disappear.

He turned immediately to the still prone form of Conrad Harissen.

Tightening his grip on the sword, he charged.

He was going to survive this!

The _glory _could still be his!

"DIE!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, as his blade descended on the man.

There was a metal clang as the sword clashed against the daedric shield littered with arrows.

How _dared_ the bastard defend himself?!

"DIE! DIE! DIE! DIEEE!" Ederion shouted like a madman, striking with all his strength each time he yelled the word.

And each time, the shield would save the Dragonborn's worthless life.

Snarling, Ederion kicked the wounds on the man's legs.

The pained howl that followed his action made him smile inwardly.

With a sweep of the sword, followed by another powerful kick, he was able to rip the shield out of the Dragonborn's grasp.

The daedric item disappeared, having lost contact with its summoner's body.

He raised the long blade, the tip pointed down, ready to descend on the man's heart.

It was over.

His assurance was betrayed when the man punched him in the groin. Hard.

He fell down besides the man, moaning in pain.

His sword fell, and a pair of strong hands went for his neck.

Ederion struggled, escaping from the Nord's attempted grab.

And received another punch, this time in the left kidney.

He retaliated with a kick on the man's right leg.

They were now grappling, wrestling, punching, kicking and rolling over each other, screaming in pain, rage and frustration.

_Finally_, Ederion was able to overcome the wounded man, and reach for the sword.

Without getting up, he tried to slit the man's throat with it, almost succeeding.

_Almost._

The Nord was actually stopping the blade with his own hands!

Growling like a beast, Ederion applied all his weight on the sword. As the edge started to deeply cut his palms, the Dragonborn hissed.

Then his azure eyes met Ederion's golden ones.

"**Yol,"** the man said, in a non-human voice. His eyes made something strange, and Ederion hesitated in front of the strange phenomenon.

"**Toor,"** the Dragonborn continued. Small embers left the man's mouth.

The azure yes...Ederion could see it clearly now. They had become slitted.

Like those of a dragon.

The man's mouth opened again. A bright similar to the one of a furnace was visible at the end of his throat.

"**SHUL!"**

Ederion's head was lambed by flames hot as a dragon's breath, his brain cooked almost instantly.

He never saw the human pushing his corpse away.

He never saw the Dragonborn reaching for the pained neck, strained because he had used too many shouts in quick succession. Or how he extracted a big, red vial out of one of those pouches and tried to drink it.

And he never saw the Dragonborn fall unconscious for the wounds he had suffered, potion still in hand, bleeding in the now red snow.

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_Fod nust hon zindro zaan_

_Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal_

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In the world contained in the depths of the Shinigami's stomach, a lonely white-cloaked figure stirred inside the ruined tower he used as a hiding place.

He could feel a new presence in this terrible realm, and it wasn't one of its terrible denizens.

Who had just arrived in this wasteland dominated by the dead and lost souls?

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**A\N: And that's all for the second chapter!**

**You just met Conrad, the Dragonborn of this story. What do you think of him?**

**Please review!**


	3. Regrets, Hopes and a Dragon

**I don't own neither Naruto or The Elder Scrolls series.**

**Beta: Duesal Bladesinger. AlmostElectric, Ekusukallybaa, cael05 and PyrothTenka also checked it time to time. We all beta for each other.**

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Conrad slowly opened his eyes.

The first thing his mind registered was that he was not in pain.

The second was that he was not feeling cold.

That was a relief, actually.

The dark purple, constantly storming sky was not.

His nostrils were assaulted by how _wrong_ the air felt, on an almost metaphysical level.

And by a foul stench.

"**Qahnaarin, you've awakened,"** a deep voice resounded behind him.

Durnehviir.

Turning his head, he saw the putrefied dragon sitting on the grey dirt, in the arena where he had fought him so many years ago.

He was in the Soul Cairn.

_Why _was he in the Soul Cairn?

"Am I dead?" the Nord asked, rising slowly on his feet. He didn't try to hide the apprehension from his voice.

If it turned out that he had to pass the whole afterlife in such a terrible place, it would be a major case of rotten luck.

And something he would expect, given his lifetime's experience with it.

"**No, Dovah. You are only mostly dead."**

"And that's better… how?" Conrad asked, voice rife with sarcasm. The dragon was unperturbed.

"**Your body, back in the Mundus, is not dead, yet. Should it survive, you will be able to return to it."**

"My… _body_? You mean that I'm not here physically?" he asked, gesturing to their surroundings. "And now that I think about it, _how_ did you manage to take me here? And _why_?"

"**Our deal. When you summoned me for the first time, our contract was sealed. Since you are now very close to Dinok, to death, I was able to take your spirit here. Temporarily, of course. Unless you die."**

"Well, I thankyou for informing me of this possible use of our agreement… a _decade_ later," he deadpanned, not pleased by this revelation at all.

"**You're welcome."**

Did the rotting flying lizard just snort at him?

It was difficult to tell between the deep voice and decaying flesh.

"Would you just tell me why you brought me back with you?"

"**I was asked to."**

Now, that was not Conrad was expecting.

"You were asked?!" he asked, incredulous. "By _who_?"

"**By him,"**the dragon said, indicating with a single talon somewhere behind the Dovahkiin.

Conrad turned.

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When Namikaze Minato sealed the Kyuubi into his newborn son so many years ago, sacrificing his own soul to the Shinigami, he was expecting to experience either an existence of unimaginable pain, his very soul slowly consumed by the death god's stomach, or a complete, utter void with _nothing_ for eternity.

Instead, it turned out that the bottom of the Shinigami's stomach was the resting place of this weird dimension, filled with strange ruins, lost souls, terrible creatures that preyed on them, reigned by those malignant beings that referred to themselves as the "Ideal Masters".

Masters who were apparently unaware of their being somehow similar to parasites, living in a god's belly.

Minato was still wondering if being consumed or existing in a complete void wouldn't have been a better option.

When he had gained awareness of his surroundings after his death, he was bewildered.

Not only was this strange world dark, dangerous, and terrible, it was also incredibly foreign. _Alien_, even.

Even in his dead and incorporeal state, he had to learn how to survive against the monsters that dwelled in the barren wastes.

Apparently, there were not a lot of souls that spoke his own tongue. He had actually met one once, but that shinobi had been in this place for so long that his sanity was in tatters.

Inwardly, Minato was utterly afraid of becoming like him with the passing of the decades.

But he would not surrender to his fate, waiting for that slow descent into madness, year after year, until there was just a husk with barely a mind inside.

He was, or had been during his life, the Yondaime Hokage of Konohagakure. He didn't like to boast his title, but if the creatures of this place and their masters wanted to destroy either his soul or his sanity, they would have to _fight_ him for it.

The first years had been pure hell: there was no other way to describe it.

Followed, stalked, chased, even hunted down. He lived months of continuous conflict.

But he was dead. Not having to deal with mortal necessities like sleep, thirst, or hunger had their own advantages.

Then one day, the creatures stopped coming.

They still attacked him if he came too close to them, but they stopped hunting him like they had before. Apparently, destroying legions of them had made them realize that it was a waste of time and resources.

Even if the Ideal Masters seemed to have a neverending supply of them.

Having more time to do something else beside fight, run, and hide, he was able to interact with the other less-aggressive denizens of his new world.

Slowly, he had learned the language spoken from the majority of the souls that filled this strange realm. Learning a language from scratch was not easy, but he had _time_, after all.

It had been a long and tedious task, mostly because a lot of the souls in this place were cursing their fate or generally being miserable about it.

As his mastery of the language improved, he learned more and more bits of pieces of cultures and histories of what seemed to be another world entirely.

Who would have guessed that a whole different continent existed on the other side of the great ocean? Filled with lands, nations, people, traditions…

There were even different _species_. Races that weren't even _human_, with their own civilizations.

And nobody in Konoha… nobody in the Fire Country… no, scratch that. Nobody in the_ whole_ Elemental Nations knew about any of it.

He was eager to learn all he could, and speaking for a few days—or weeks—with the rare souls willingly to, helped him remain in good mental shape.

After all, he _needed_ to think about something besides his family's fate.

Kushina… what had been _her_ soul's fate? He prayed that she had gone to a better place. Surely, there had to be one.

And Naruto, his son…

Was he growing up well? Had he been taken care for? Was he _fine_? Was he _safe_?

Not knowing _that_, above all things...that hurt more than any torment he had suffered since he arrived in this forsaken place.

Being completely unable to change that, he had opted all the time his train of thoughts for a simple solution. Think about something else, because it hurt too much.

And for the longest time he had not strayed from that pattern.

It had continued that way, year after year, for the longest time, until a fortuitous encounter.

Since then, Minato had been given a ray of hope in this damned place.

He had formed a plan, and put it in motion. It had took a long time but now the older—who was not really older—man was standing in front of him.

It was a strange experience, like looking at a mirror that twisted the image reflected on it.

The older-looking blond had shorter hair, and broader shoulders, but that could have been an impression given from the armour he was wearing. A short beard covered his face and three long scars were etched into his right cheek.

And the eyes, even if they had the same shade of azure, were a little colder. And right now were completely widened.

But the resemblance was uncanny.

The only problem now, was how to tell him—

"Who the fuck are you?" the man snarled, his expression morphing to a scowl.

Well. That was a good way to start, no matter how blunt.

He scratched his head, thinking how to reply. Should he…?

Well, there were not a lot of ways to answer to that question.

"_I_," Minato said, pointing to his chest with his hand, "am your brother."

The man in front of him—his brother, he had to remind himself—just stared at him, blinking for a few seconds.

"Say what?" was the question he received, a little more than a whisper.

The great undead dragon was looking at the whole scene, apparently amused.

"I said, I am your—"

"I heard that! I'm not deaf!" his brother snapped. "What are you blabbering about?!"

Minato sighed. He had been afraid of a similar reaction.

After all, they both hadn't been aware of each other's existence, and Minato had learned of Conrad's only after his death.

In his brother's eyes, he was probably just a random ghost that somehow resembled his appearance, claiming to have some blood ties with him.

"I understand that it's difficult to believe, but—"

"FUCK OFF!" his twin snarled, interrupting him again. "If you think you can just tell me something like that and—"

"**Vazah, Dovahkiin," **the dragon Durnehviir said, with his deep voice. **"It's true."**

That stopped the outburst, and the man turned towards the great dragon, slowly, an accusing finger still pointed towards Minato.

"What? Durnehviir, don't tell me that you believe this—"

"**I was the one who told your Zeymah, your brother's soul, that you're of the same Sos, the same blood."**

There was a moment of complete silence, disturbed only by the winds of the desolate place.

Then, slowly, Minato's brother turned to face the dragon unable to die, his eyes slitted.

"How can you be sure of this?" he hissed.

"**I met your Zeymah when I came back in this Dur Lein, cursed world, after the last time you summoned me."**

"The last time, you said?" Minato's brother asked, looking pensive. "But that was...five years ago."

"**Geh, yes. When you and your Aar attacked your enemy's stronghold. It was a good fight."**

"The Blades are not my servants, dragon," the man said, bitterly. "I'm not their master, and I don't want to be."

Minato was a little confused by his brother's statement. From what he had learned in these years, he was supposed to be some kind of champion, a leader of men. And even some mer, too.

That was how he had been told about, at least. So why was he denying that?

"**They follow you in battle, Dovahkiin. They follow your orders, that makes you their In."**

"Whatever. I don't want to talk about _my_ position in the resistance with _you_. I already have Delphine pressing me about it," the not-yet-dead man said, sighing. "Just keep going with your tale, Durnehviir."

"**As I came back to the Ideal Master's dominion, I saw him. He soon proved to be a Bahlan Kendov. A worthy warrior. We fought quite often."**

"It was just a random encounter," Minato said sheepishly, thinking that he should add his own account to the dragon's tale. "I was just travelling on the plains, and Durnehviir appeared from nowhere, and attacked me immediately."

"**We fought and fought for months, ****because he was a good adversary. He met me blow for blow. A distraction from my cursed existence."**

"Yeah, well… I was not really happy about it, actually," the Yondaime said.

Durnehviir ignored him.

"**Grah Pruzah, we had. I usually won."**

Minato rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to reveal the _real_ wins and defeats ratio. He had learned that the dragon had an ego bigger than his body, and often liked to boast his power.

He suspected that the same could be said for all the others of his kin.

"**But as time went on… I started to have my suspicions,"** the dragon continued. **"Even if he was a just a Sillesejoor, the soul of a mortal, he was able to resist me. Even beat me, a few times."**

"You know, you're still not telling me why—" the Dragonborn tried to say.

"**He resembles you very much, Dovah—"**

"A _lot_ of Nords resemble me! We've all blond hair and beards, or so the stereotype says. Get to the point!"

"**And his Sil, his soul… even if it is a human one… he smells like a Dovah."**

For the second time, silence filled the great arena before Minato's brother interrupted it.

"Are you saying… that _he_ was Dragonborn, too?!"

"**No. His soul is a Joor's, a mortal's, of the Jul, a human soul…" **Durnehviir spoke, slowly. **"But he had been close to a Dovah when the souls entered both of your bodies. In his… and yours… Monah. When both of you were in your mother's womb."**

"You think that he is my brother because… his _soul_… smells funny," the other man deadpanned.

"Actually—"

"You, shut up. Dragons are speaking here," his brother said, waving his hand at Minato dismissively. The Yondaime was taken aback. This was not going how he had planned. "Are you sure that you're not just bored and making stuff up to entertain your—"

"**I AM **_**SURE**_**!" **Durnehviir _thundered_, causing the ground to shake in the face of his fury. **"I HAVE LIVED FOR MILLENNIA, DOVAHKIIN! I SPENT MY CURSED EXISTENCE HERE, SURROUNDED BY SOULS. I RECOGNIZED YOUR DOVAH ZIIL WHEN I LAID MY EYES ON YOU FOR THE FIRST TIME! IF I SAY, THAT THE SIL OF A JUR SMELLS LIKE A DOVAH FRON, THEN I AM **_**SURE**_**!"**

"You… have a point. And the only way for his soul to 'smell' like a dragon's one would be..." the Dragonborn said slowly, turning towards Minato.

The blond Hokage tried to offer a reassuring smile.

"Aaah, I can't deal with this!" his brother yelled, throwing his hands in the air. "I find out from and undead dragon that I've a brother… and he's _dead_! Oh, and I'm dying too!"

Apparently, his smile had not been as reassuring as he had hoped.

"Look, I know it's not exactly something you find out every day, but—"

"Wait a moment," his brother interrupted him. Again. Seriously, it was becoming a habit and they had met just ten minutes ago. "If you're here… that means…"

"That my soul is trapped here?" Minato asked rhetorically, shrugging. "Yes."

"Who did this to you?" the older-looking blond asked, growling.

That was another question that Minato was expecting. And once again, there was no other way to explain it without being blunt.

"_I_ did," he stated.

Minato had expected the silence, the visible shock, and the open wide mouth.

He hadn't expected the punch sailing towards his face. Which he easily dodged anyway.

"You idiotic, imbecile, moronic, stupid _FOOL_!" his twin snarled, without stopping to try to hit him.

His movements were not sloppy, and far above the level of a civilian, but they were not what had been expecting when he'd heard of his brother, the great warrior of an unknown land.

Even a genin would have a fair chance against him, if the fight was a only-taijutsu—

"**FUS!" **

Minato felt the violent push, and used it to put some distance between himself and his enraged brother, landing gracefully.

So _this_ was the power of the Voice of which Durnehviir had spoke. Impressive, and even faster than a jutsu.

His brother had started to slowly advance towards him, cracking his knuckles.

"Please, nii—Please, brother! Calm yourself! I had good reason to—"

"**WULD NAH KEST!" **and the enraged Dragonborn was right in front of him, snarling, a fist raised.

Minato barely dodged it. Whatever that shout was, it was more or less on the level of a shunshin.

"_Reason_?! What reason could you possibly have? _POWER_?!" the fuming blond hissed, still pressing his attack. "Did you hope that making a deal with the Ideal Masters would increase your magical might?!"

Alright, that was enough.

Minato punched his still-living brother in the gut, knocking the breath out of him.

The Yondaime didn't know how that was possible, since the man was not physically present inside the Shinigami's stomach, but he didn't care.

"I did what I did because I had no choice. There was no option left," he said coldly, with just enough remorse in his voice.

His brother just growled quietly as he gasped for air.

"No choice? No other option but to condemn yourself to _this_?!"

There was a flicker around the man's hands, and a spray of lightning was aimed towards Minato.

But the Yondaime was not in front of the Dragonborn anymore. Tendrils of electricity zapped at the ground, throwing up sand wherever they hit.

"Calm down," Minato said, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. He had shunshined behind him as he had started to prepare that jutsu—no, not jutsu. Spell. He had to remember the difference. Spells were much faster to use, not requiring the more complex handsigns that jutsu did.

There was also the difference between chakra and magicka, but this wasn't the time to delve into that.

"It's true, I condemned myself to pass all my afterlife in this place," Minato said in a gentle but firm tone, hoping to finally tranquilize his long-lost sibling. "But in doing so … I saved thousands of lives, who otherwise would surely be lost."

For a moment, his twin's stance became more tense. Minato wondered if it was because of his explanation or a reaction to his speed.

"That," the man said, turning his head towards him, "is a good enough reason. But what happened to force you to such a choice? A siege?"

"Not exactly… you see—"

"**Oblaan? It's over already?"** the dragon demanded, with a bored tone. **"I was enjoying seeing the Dovahkiin beaten."**

"Beaten my ass," the man said, turning to face Minato with a slight grin. "So… you are my brother?"

"Yes, I am," Minato said, happy that the hostility was now gone.

"I'm Conrad, by the way," his brother said, offering his hand.

"Yeah, I know that," Minato replied, shaking his sibling's hand. "Durnehviir and some other souls told me that. I am Namikaze Minato."

"Na-mika-ze?" Conrad said, slowly, trying the unfamiliar sounds. "Well, Namikaze, why have you asked our rotting friend to take me here at the first chance he could?"

"**I am here, Dovah," **the dragon said, not liking being ignored.

"Err, Namikaze is not my name, it's the surname," minato said sheepishly.

"What? Why did you introduce yourself like that, then?" his brother asked, confused.

Right. There were various cultural differences between them… how to explain this…

"You see, in the place where I grew up, it's customary to introduce yourself using the surname first."

"That's… a strange tradition, you know," Conrad said, blinking. "Where did you grow up? Who gave you that name? I've never heard of such a thing, and I've travelled a lot."

"A land far away from Skyrim. Actually, far away from Tamriel."

"What?" Conrad asked, flatly. He seemed torn between incredulity and confusion.

"I'm not sure how, exactly, but I was found in a shipwreck that washed up on the shores of the Elemental Nations."

"Never heard of them," his brother said. The confusion had won and was clearly visible on his face.

"They're very far, far across the ocean. Don't ask me _which _ocean because I haven't figured that out yet. As for my name, well… it was given to me at the orphanage, I presume."

"Orphanage?" Conrad asked, his face falling.

"Well, yes. I passed my childhood in one and… wait," Minato trailed off, realizing that something was wrong from his brother's eyes. "You too…?"

"No, no… I lived with Father until I was… seventeen or something. But he never talked about our mother, he refused to," Conrad said, with a mournful tone.

"How is our father?" Minato asked, with a pang of jealousy. True, he could feel that Conrad had hoped to know about their mother, but at least he had known one of their parents.

"I don't know," Conrad whispered.

"What?"

"I don't know! When I came back to Skyrim, two years after I left, Helgen...that was the village where we lived...was burned down," Conrad replied, hastily. "I've met only three other survivors from that day. I have no idea if Father is still alive."

"I'm sorry," he said, sincerely. "How was he? Was he… a good father?"

"Yes," his brother replied, after almost a full minute of silence. "Yes he was. Is. Whatever. He's just… not an easy man to live with."

Minato wanted to ask more questions, so much more, but the pain in his brother's eyes made him hold his tongue.

"What kind of spell did you use to get behind me that fast?" Conrad asked, probably to change the subject. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Oh, that was not a spell. It was just a shunshin, a jutsu—"

"A what?" his brother asked, confused once again.

"Please Conrad, stop interrupting me. It's a… look, it's complicated to explain, but you basically you pump your chakra into—right, you don't know what chakra is… it's like magicka… only it's not. You don't _die_ when you run out of magicka right? And you can't restore chakra with a potion," Minato rambled "But now that I think about it, shinobi never _tried_ to create potions. Only poisons. And antidotes for the poisons. We got only those soldier pills, and they're dangerous—"

"I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about."

"Are you always that vulgar?"

"You should see me when I drink."

"You should avoid doing that, you know. It's not good for you," Minato scolded.

"Great. I get a _dead_ brother, and not even half an hour later I'm already receiving a lecture about—" Conrad started, before trailing off, looking at his hands, freezing with widened eyes.

They were fading.

"Durnehviir!" the Nord called. "What's going on?!"

"**You're waking," **the dragon said, apparently not really interested. **"Your Kopraan, your body is not dead. Your Zii is going back to it."**

"What?!" Minato shouted, panicking. "Already?"

Conrad was now fading quickly, he was little more than a floating torso, but that didn't seem to cause him physical pain.

The brothers met each other's eyes, knowing that they would probably never see each other again.

There were so many things Minato would have wanted tell his brother, so many things that he wished to learn, but he knew there was no more time.

He flashed through a quick combination of handsigns, required for the jutsu he had prepared _especially_ for the occasion, and slammed his right hand on Conrad's face.

There was a burst of energy, and Conrad _screamed_ as the tendrils of chakra burned a picture inside his mind.

"What the _FUCK_?! Why did you—"

"There is no time!" Minato interrupted him. "It will help you find the place I'm from. You _must_ go there! Tell them about the masked man that attacked the village twelve years ago! Help them! Help Konoha! Help—"

Before he could finish his request, there was a blinding light, and what was left of Conrad's spiritual form soared to the sky, like fireworks in a summer festival.

"—my son…" Minato whispered, fully knowing that his brother had not heard it.

Silence descended once again on the arena, now occupied only by a dragon unable to die and the lost soul of the Yondaime Hokage.

"_FUCK_!" Minato's voice thundered in frustration, at such volumes that even the spirits far away from the place heard its echo.

"**You should have asked your request at the very beginning, Joor,"** Durnehviir remarked after a few of minutes of silence where the Yondaime had just sat in the grey sand.

Minato looked at the dragon straight in the eyes, flooding the area with killing intent.

All those years… for probably nothing. There was no guarantee with his brother would follow his request, after all. He had not given him enough details, or reasons to.

"**Do not direct your Rahgot, your rage towards me, shinobi. It was your own fault."**

Yes, it was. The dragon was right.

Such an opportunity, _wasted_, and all because he had to get so _emotive_ instead of—

"**No Paak, don't feel shame. Every Joor would have done the same. The Dovahkiin will grant your Waan, I know this."**

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, staring into the dragon's general direction.

"**He had always been… curious. Vomindok, the unknown, had always fascinated him. It still does. It is because of his curiosity that his Laas has been so… interesting."**

Minato said nothing as the dragon slowly got up, but inwardly he was relieved.

For the first time after his death, he had hope for his son and for his village.

"**Now, the pact among us is over. I ****granted your request, and now I demand my payment."**

"That would be… what? Six months of battle, without stopping?" he smiled bitterly.

"_**Eight**_**," **Durnehviir corrected. **"Come now, Yondaime Hokage. Show me what you can do when your fury is unleashed!"**

Minato's grin was pure evil. If the dragon wanted a real fight, he would give him a real fight.

He needed to vent, after all.

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Conrad woke up.

This time, he was hurting over his whole body, and and he was feeling cold too.

Even under the thick layer of furs.

Wait. Furs?

He moved groggily his head, disturbed by the loud, constant noise of _something_ moving. The ground itself felt like it was bouncing and rolling, sending flashes of pain all over his back, irritating the bruises where the warhammer had hit him.

He opened his eyes and saw the sky moving in front of him. The sudden light and the ache of whatever Minato had done were doing a mess of his head—

Wait!

Minato!

Was that just a dream? Could it have been true?

Or had it been just a weird, _really_ weird near-death experience?

… Maybe he could summon Durnehviir again and ask him, just to be sure.

"He's awake!" someone shouted. He didn't recognize the voice, but from the tone he could tell that they were actually _happy _he wasn't dead.

"What? _Now_?" another voice said. This one was familiar, but he couldn't put a face to it.

"There's a patrol coming from behind the hill. Cover him!"

He felt something heavy being pulled over his body and his head. Darkness.

"Now be _quiet_," the familiar voice hissed.

Conrad had no idea what was going on, but he realized something when he heard the sound of the horses being forced to slow down.

He was on a wagon. Someone had found him and saved him.

He wondered if, had he died, he would have remained in the Soul Cairn.

If he hadn't hallucinated the whole thing.

He heard someone ordering to the wagon to halt, and once they stopped, someone started to ask questions.

"Who are you? What business to you have on the roads of the Whiterun hold?" a gruff voice said.

Whiterun hold? But he had lost consciousness in the Hjalmarch. How much time had he been knocked out?

"Me and my wife are trappers, good sir," the familiar voice said, changing his voice to sound the most uneducated as possible. "We're going to sell our pelts to Whiterun. See? They're good pelts. I can't make a lot for them in Rorickstead."

"And why are you escorted by four armed mercenaries?" the gruff voice asked, suspiciously.

"Well, sir, it's a lot of pelts. Bandits could try to steal them, yessir. And kill us, too."

Other questions followed, but Conrad could feel his mind getting foggy again.

He tried to focus, but his body was really in bad shape, he was tired, and he was hungry.

The Dragonborn slowly but surely swept back to into the blissful unconsciousness.

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He woke up to the smell of stew and sweetrolls.

"Hey! Give it back!" someone shouted.

Conrad opened slowly his eyes, and noticed that it was night, the stars were greeting him. He felt the heat of a campfire in his proximity.

Somewhere, someone snorted.

"What? Are you _really_ going to say that someone stole your sweetroll?"

There was a collective laugh at that. Not too loud, but it was clear that the joke had eased the tension of the people in the camp.

Now, where in Oblivion was he? And who saved him?

He rolled onto his side. His legs hurt like two Riften bitches, and he grunted in pain. He had forgotten about that wound.

"Oh, welcome back, boss," the familiar voice said. "How sweet of you to join us."

Conrad's head snapped in the direction of the speaker. He immediately recognized him.

"Haming. I'm not your boss," he said, nodding towards the young hunter.

The young man shrugged, and Conrad knew that he would just ignore his protest. Again. Haming was one of the few survivors of Alduin's attack at Helgen, along with Conrad and other two people that they knew off. Maybe that, and the idea that the Dragonborn was from his own, now destroyed and almost forgotten village, had sealed the archer's loyalty towards the older Nord.

After all, people tended to be loyal towards those that killed the dragon that had killed their parents.

"Where are we?"

"An old bandit lair, between Whiterun's and Falkreath's holds," Haming replied, filling a plate with steaming stew. "Not exactly one of our most fancy hideouts, boss. But it's safe."

Cornad grunted, and looked around.

They were in a cave, one wide enough to have a nice living space for all of them.

The air was cool, and even the faintest sounds echoed through the place's walls.

Conrad hoped that they had chosen a good point to hide the wagon and the beasts they were using to drag it, otherwise their presence would have been much less discrete.

Besides him and Haming, there were other five people.

One of them, to his surprise, was the innkeeper that had tried to poison him. The woman was sitting in an angle of the cave, eating alone.

He had no problems with that.

The other four, though…

They were looking at him with _those_ eyes.

Those eyes, almost bulged out, that were looking at him like he was some kind of fucking _god_ descended on the Mundus to save them all.

And he had saved them all.

The problem was that now they were expecting to be saved again, and had chosen to fight at his side.

Unlike most of the continent, actually. Poor bastards.

That didn't ease the Dragonborn's worries. The resistance against the Thalmor didn't need fanatics ready to rally behind his shadow.

No matter what Delphine said.

Haming passed a portion of stew towards him, and Conrad accepted it with a nod, before starting to practically devour the dish.

"Our… partners discovered the mole, and dealt with him," the archer started.

Conrad nodded. Among the group inside the cave, only him and Conrad were aware of the Blade's existence, with Conrad being actually a member of the order.

The others were instead 'resistance fighters', which was a term used by the Blades to describe their allies in the fight against the Thalmor. Organized a little better than bandits' bands, and sometime with a little more morality than the raiders.

It was necessary, because their struggle against the Thalmor and the Aldmeri Dominion had to be fought with guerrilla tactics, on all the provinces.

So the fighters could not know about the Blades' existence. It could have been a disaster. Every group of fighters was not aware of the other groups, for security reasons.

Every Blade agent supervised a bunch of this parties, coordinating their effort in the territory.

Haming was one of those agents, Conrad himself had recruited him.

"So, we were sent to fetch you before the Thalmor got you, but they had days of advantage," the hunter kept explaining. "The Thalmor won our race."

Conrad snorted at that, watching the bandages wrapping his palms, where the Justiciar's blade had cut deep.

"By the way, boss. Nice work with that," the young man smirked "News about how an entire _company_ of Thalmor soldiers disappeared spread fast. There are patrols everywhere, scaring the jarls shitless."

Great. Just great.

He had given the Thalmor an excuse to put _more _troops into the Imperial Province.

Maybe in the other ones, too.

The archer kept talking, pointing towards the woman sitting alone at a brief distance away..

"It was her, Feida, that saved you, you know."

Conrad turned towards the woman, arching an eyebrow curiously.

"I waited, and waited," she started, "until the battle outside was over. And after that...I waited more. Once I was sure that nothing was moving out there...I peeked through the door. There were so many bodies…"

For a few minutes the only sound in the cave was the cracking of the flames. It was clear that the woman was not used to violence.

One of the armed men placed a log into the fire.

"I found you, barely alive," the woman continued. "You were laying in a pool of your frozen blood… your legs were a mess. I gave you one of your potions, and dragged you inside the inn. It wasn't easy. You're quite heavy."

"We arrived a few hours later," Haming started again. "We loaded you on a wagon we stole and took you away from there, the fastest we could."

Conrad massaged his temples, having finished his stew.

"What about her?" he asked, motioning towards (what was her name?) Feida.

"She saw you, and us, so… we gave her the 'join or die' option," the archer said sheepishly.

"We don't have a 'join or die' option, kid."

"She didn't know that," Haming replied, smirking.

"It's fine," Feida interrupted. "After that fiasco, the Thalmor would have hunted me down anyway. Either I stay with you guys, or I'm dead."

"Whatever," Conrad snorted. Only to add something quickly when he saw the annoyed look Haming gave him. "We'll find a use for you, I suppose."

"I'm a good cook, and—"

"Stop it. It's not _my_ job to find what you can do," he interrupted, ignoring the woman's offended expression and turning towards the young archer. "Where is my stuff?"

"We hid your bags and your metallic junk under the pelts and—"

"_Junk_?!" Conrad exclaimed, indignant. "My nordic carved armour is _not_ junk!"

"With all those scratches and dents, it looks like a piece of junk, boss," the archer smirked. "Oh, and I've managed to save your axe, too. And your walking stick."

"It's not a walking stick, it's a mage's staff! A mage staff _carved_ to look like a walking stick, to not be recognized for what it is!" Conrad seethed, tired of having to correct his self-proclaimed minion about the nature of the totem pole. Again.

He winced, his head was throbbing now. At first, when he had woken up, he had thought it was because of the exhaustion, his wounds or both.

But when he closed his eyes, he could vividly see… something.

Four symbols, exotic-looking and with an unknown meaning, gleaming in the dark of his closed eyelids.

The encounter in the Soul Cairn had really happened. And Minato had done, or given, something to him.

"Just admit it, boss. Sooner or later, you'll have to—"

"Paper," he interrupted harshly. "And ink. Now."

Haming looked at him for a few seconds, confused from this unusual reaction during their traditional banter, but gestured towards his subordinates neverless.

He heard someone rummage somewhere as he kept massaging his temples.

"Here it is, boss. Do you have to write a message or—"

"Later," Conrad hissed, snatching the pen and paper sheet. He started scribbling furiously, slightly put off by the unfamiliar symbols.

"Whatever you say, boss," Haming sighed, before getting closer to him and starting to whisper. "Look, I've received orders from Delphine. I'm to take you to the ruins of the Cloud Ruler Temple, in Cyrodiil, before the borders will become impassable because of the checkpoints—"

"Shush, Haming. You're distracting me," Conrad said, discarding the paper sheet, unsatisfied with the result.

"But—"

"I said, _shut up_, Haming!"

Haming fell silent, knowing that whatever he was doing, was somehow important.

Once Conrad was finished, he examined his handiwork. Scribbled on the parchment, the four symbols were almost gleaming, the light of the fire reflected off the fresh ink.

He had no idea what he was supposed to do with this. But he would find out, with time.

"I won't go there, no matter what Delphine says."

"But… they're looking for you _everywhere_! You're gravely wounded, you have to hide—"

"I _will_ hide, but I have stuff to do, and I know where I have to go to do the necessary research. And you'll take me there."

"Delphine won't be happy about this, boss."

"Like I care about what the old hag thinks—" he said, only to drift when he saw Haming's worried face.

"Alright, alright! I'll write a letter to her and tell her that it's not your fault, boy. Happy?! Now gather your things and give the orders to your men, and whatever her name is. We're moving."

"Moving? To where?"

"To Winterhold."

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* * *

**A\N: And that's all for this chapter.  
**

**What's your opinion so far? Did you like the twins' reunion?**

**Please let me know and review! Every time you don't review, a soul is forever trapped in the Soul Cairn!**

**I've already ideas for the future chapters, but I have to think to DSTN and RitS, too! **

**So, see you as soon as possible!**


	4. Simpler in Hindsight

**A\N: I do not own Naruto or The Elder Scrolls.  
**

**Sorry for the long wait, everyone. I hope you'll like it.**

Beta: Duesal Bladesinger. But all the other people of the Awesome Author Coalition gave it a look, too. Check out our community.

* * *

Winterhold was almost exactly as he remembered it.**  
**

Cold, freezing, and ugly.

At least it wasn't snowing. Yet.

But there were differences, which was expected after all the time he had not visited. It was the _kind_ of differences that was surprising him.

New buildings had been erected, mostly small wooden houses, and even a few shops. There were more people around, and the whole settlement seemed to be _booming_.

"What happened here? The jarl ban all the taxes?" he asked as Haming helped him get down from the wagon.

"Why don't you ask him? I'm sure he'd be happy to see you."

"I have other things to do," he said, hobbling over with his crutch. The wounds on the legs were not healed yet, even with the use of magic.

"Yes, you told us this. But what are _we_ supposed to do?" the young archer asked, gesturing to his fighters and what-was-her-name… Feida, or something like that.

"Drink something in the inn. Find out about what's going on in the region. Don't draw attention to yourself. The usual."

"What about your stuff? The junk and the—"

"I will send someone to take my belongings, among which the ancient armour stands out," he said drily.

"Whatever you say, boss. Are you sure you don't want a hand with—"

"I bet that the place has still a policy about 'mages only', even if the town has changed. I'll go alone."

"Suit yourself, boss. Join us at the inn later?"

"I'll try," Conrad said, as he started to limp towards the College, at an extremely slow pace.

As he proceeded on the well-worn road, he absorbed all the sounds he had never heard here, before.

A cacophony of hooves and rusty spokes, of hammers on hot metal, and loud, brash voices that filled the air.

All things that were found in other settlements.

But there was one thing that was missing. There were no childish laughs.

There were no children.

How was it possible for a city that had gained so many inhabitants and seemed to be in an expanding stage to have no children?

As he struggled to think of a good reason for this, Conrad suddenly stopped.

He felt his honed instincts kicking in, and his free hand went to the handle of his axe, concealed under the heavy fur mantle he had been given by Haming.

He had found himself under the scrutiny of a small number of onlookers who were lingering around the entrance of a tavern, mugs and flagons in hand.

And weapons on their belts.

Since when had Winterhold had more than one inn, anyway?

They looked like seasoned fighters, their eyes were too shifty for Conrad's tastes, and they were interested in him.

That was never good.

Was it because he was a 'new' arrival in town, or for other reasons?

Conrad was suddenly happy that his cowl was concealing the scarred side of his face from their view.

Now that he thought about it, something seemed off ever since they had arrived, and now he realized what it was.

Everyone was carrying a weapon. _Everyone_.

What had happened to the dying town?

"What are you looking at?" he growled, giving his best angry Nord performance. He was sure that he could beat them if they tried anything funny.

But without his armour on, he felt so exposed. Walking with it on would have been asking for trouble for his wounded legs.

"Heh, another 'tough guy'," one of the group snarked, derision dripping from his words.

Conrad blinked at him, stupefied. Had this tavern trash just—

"Look at him. He can barely _stand_!" another laughed, to be quickly joined by his companions.

The tension seemed to evaporate completely as they forgot about him and turned back to their drinks.

On any other day, Conrad would have taught them a lesson. In his younger days, he would have _crushed_ them. He could feel his soul, his _dragon_ soul, screaming in outrage, eager to rain down his righteous fury on these _weaklings_ who dared to insult him.

But he couldn't risk being arrested or kicked out of the town.

He had things to do, and this was not worth it.

Grumbling, he swallowed his pride and resumed his walk towards the College.

At least Haming and the others would pass unnoticed around here.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

A pair of hooded figures were walking along the arcade that surrounded the College's courtyard. They were both wearing the clothes associated with the apprentices of the school, but while one of them was walking in long, elegant strides, the other did so in an undignified manner, nervousness showing with each of her steps.

"I tell you, Beta, you worry too much," the controlled one said.

"But what if they expel me because I can't do it?!" his companion asked, panic in her voice.

"None have ever been expelled from the College because they were less than adequate in Restoration. Calm down!"

She went ahead and did the opposite.

"It could happen, Sven! I could be the first! I could—"

"What's going on?" the young mage asked suddenly, looking ahead of his companion.

"I'm having a panic attack, that's what's going on!"

"No, not you," Sven said, gesturing to the entry of the courtyard. "_There._"

Beta followed her friend's line of sight and noticed the commotion at the entrance of the courtyard, right in front of the statue that greeted the newcomers to the College.

A group of students of various classes were staring too something, whispering to each other frantically.

They heard yelling, but the little flock of scholars were obstructing their view.

"What do you think has happened?" Beta asked. Her friend kept moving.

"Probably another sellsword that tried to sneak into the College while the bridge wasn't being watched. Come on, let's check."

As they approached their fellow students, they could hear the voice of one of the senior students—for the good of her, Beta couldn't remember his name—intimidating a stranger into leaving.

The stranger was a tall, blond-bearded Nord around his fortieth winter, leaning heavily on a crutch. A hooded fur mantle concealed his attire, but Beta saw an axe strapped to his belt.

"I insist that you, sir, evacuate the property," the senior apprentice said, almost disdainfully.

"And _I_ insist that you step aside, before I break your nose," the stranger said in a gruff voice.

"Told you," Sven whispered. "Typical sellsword."

"That's an _axe_, Sven," she replied.

"So what? Axe, sword, same thing."

"Access to the College of Winterhold is currently restricted to its _members_, sir. So if you will not leave, I will be forced to—"

"I would love to see you try… _mageling_," the stranger snarled.

"I'm warning you! If you don't vacate the College _now_, I'll be forced to _make_ you vacate it!"

"Come on, Beta. Let's go," Sven said, having lost interest just like a few other students.

Reluctantly, the Nord girl followed him.

"Are you sure it will be fine? That guy could attack them."

"They can handle it. We have stuff to do, and it wouldn't be the first time a nobody was kicked out of he—"

"**FUS!"**

The sound resounded along the arcade, alongside the startled yells of a few students.

Silence followed, quickly substituted by expressions of confusion and awe.

"Impossible," Beta whispered. The only person still able to use the Thu'um, besides the Greybeards, was—

She turned, only to see that the stranger was plowing through her fellow students who were utterly still, their eyes widened in surprise. The senior apprentice was flat on the ground, slowly getting up, still in shock.

All of the novices were whispering like a bunch of gossipers, but a single word was on everyone's lips.

"Dragonborn," Beta said, never turning her sight from the living legend that was walking right in her direction.

Well, more like _limping_ in her direction, but that didn't matter in her opinion.

She was sure that she was going to have another panic attack.

"You!" the limping legend exclaimed, pointing in her general direction. Beta wasn't sure if he was pointing at her or Sven, but she was too panicked to care. "Tell me where the Archmage is! And someone explain to me why the bridge hasn't been repaired yet after all these years!"

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

"You have always known how to make grand entrances, Conrad. Tea?" Mirabelle Ervine asked, from the other side of her desk in her private quarters.

"Yes, please. I was _freezing_ on that bridge," he replied gratefully. The long trip on the snow hadn't helped.

"I've never met a Nord that hates the cold like you do," the Archmage said, as she poured a cup for Conrad and one for herself.

"I'm not a typical Nord," he snorted.

"You use an axe, you're proud of your beard, and you love mead so much that you'd like to _swim_ into it," the older woman said as she put down the kettle on a wooden coaster.

"Your point?" Conrad said, sniffing his cup's content.

"Around here, that makes you a Nord. Especially in the eyes of the students used to dealing with the new… townsfolk."

"Just because I'm not a skinny little shit doesn't make me a barbarian! I mean, look at Urag gro-Shub. By the way, how is the old Orc?"

"Wait… you didn't know?" Mirabelle asked, becoming really serious.

A long pause followed between the two long-time acquaintances.

"When?" Something in Conrad's voice sounded a bit broken at that moment.

"He died two summers ago. Passed away in his sleep," the Archmage replied sadly, lowering her gaze.

Mirabelle stared at him, as Conrad sipped silently from his cup.

He could feel moisture forming in his eyes.

"Sorry, something got in my eyes," he said, drying the unshed tears. Time to change subject. "What happened at the city?"

"It grew up," the woman said, taking a sip of her own.

"... I can see that. Care to explain _why_? There was nothing around of interest here, aside from the College."

"That's simple, Conrad. It's your fault."

Conrad blinked, taken aback.

"_My _fault?!"

"You're the Dragonborn of legend, the man who slew Alduin, the hero of the Siege of Whiterun and of the Battle of Cold Rock Pass. And who knows how many other things you've done. Everyone knows you're a Nord spellcaster, everyone knows that you were trained right _here_. Did you really think that people wouldn't flock to your fame?"

"I think I need something stronger than this," he muttered, placing the half-empty tea cup on the desk.

"Third drawer behind you," Mirabelle said, taking a sip of tea.

"And they all want to come to the college?!" Conrad asked, as he retrieved a bottle of sujamma from the counter.

"At the start, yes. We gained quite a few students, we even had to build a few more rooms."

"I thought that magic was scorned in Skyrim. Even more than the other imperial provinces. Not even my fame justifies such a flow of new apprentices," Conrad said skeptically as he poured the liquor in his own cup.

"It's not. Magic is still distrusted in the holds, but lot of students came from the rest of the Empire, too. But we couldn't take all of them."

"So why's the city full of armed thugs? I doubt _they_ want to start using magic."

"They came with the mining company. A lot of new mines were opened along the Sea of Ghosts—"

"And they were paid to assure the mines' safety, I get it. Wait... Who owns the mines?"

Mirabelle's face tightened in a grimace.

"The jarl does. It was his idea to revive the city, and convince all the families that followed to stay, since the College would not help. As if we could," she snorted. "And when news spread, people with troubled pasts started showing up here to find a fresh start. When the new inhabitants are not working or guarding the mines, they usually laze around the town or in one of the inns. From what I gathered, it was difficult to keep order in the first months."

"So what did our young jarl do?" he asked, tasting the sujamma in his mouth.

"He gave them a purpose. Now, they are useful for various things."

"What things?"

"Fighting bandits, hunting down monsters, search for treasures in the ruins on the coast, or explore what remains of the old Winterhold."

"Are you saying… that the jarl turned Winterhold in a city of _adventurers_?"

"Yes," Mirabelle said, with a glum expression.

"That… that is_ hilarious_," he said, barely containing his laugh.

"I don't find it entertaining at all. We get harassed from them every time we get in town, and—"

"Alright, alright. Having your isolated College sitting beside a town full of people that raid ruins for coin is bad for you, I get it. Let's speak of more serious matters, now," Conrad said, pouring again the sujamma. "The Thalmor."

"Ah. Took you long enough," Mirabelle stated, proffering her cup.

"Did they cause problems for the College?" he asked, serving the liquor to the Archmage.

The 'because of me' went unsaid.

"They tried, but not for long," she said, savoring the exotic liquor. "We may be a little school of magic, but they know that is better to avoid the ire of mages. And you have been absent for… nine years?"

"Eight and a half," Conrad corrected drily.

"Yes, well, with your long-term absence, we could avoid suspicion from the Justiciars, even with your… independent activities."

"Independent activities? That's the understatement of the year, Mirabelle."

"Why did you come back, Conrad?" she sighed, knowing too well that this was no courtesy visit. "I suppose it's not to finally accept the title of Arch-Mage, right?"

"You guessed right," Conrad said with a small smirk.

"This is the fourth time it's been offered to you, you know."

"And for the fourth time, I refuse it. You know too well that I can't manage this place, since I'm always on the move, and my name's at the top of the Thalmor's hit-list."

"That's a shame. But at least I get to keep the biggest room around here," Mirabelle smirked while leaning back on her seat. "Now spit it out."

"Did you heard of what happened in the Hjaalmarch?"

"Just that a few days ago, the Thalmor Embassy sent more patrols inland. And I think that it's better if I don't know anything else."

"Good. Let's just say that I need to stay in a quiet and cozy place for a while. And since I had some research to do, I decided to make a visit."

"Research? What kind of research?" Mirabelle asked, arching an eyebrow.

"About these runes," Conrad said, retrieving the parchment he had written in that cave in the middle of nowhere. He didn't really need it anymore. He could clearly see the symbols every time he closed his eyes.

He silently observed as Mirabelle Ervine, the Archmage of Winterhold College, raised an eyebrow in confusion at the paper sheet spread on the desk.

"Conrad."

"Yes?" he asked, distractedly pouring another serving of sujamma in his cup.

"What in Oblivion is this?"

"I have no idea," the man responded. "But I want to find out."

"Is that even writing? Even the dragon language looks decipherable," the woman said, leaning over to take a closer look. "This is just… gibberish!"

"Pretty much, yes."

"Where did you find it? Was it inscribed in a stone? A mural? In one of the ancient tombs where you like do dwell?"

"Do you _really_ want to know?" he asked, smirking.

Mirabelle snorted.

"I think you know the answer to that."

"Good, because I wouldn't tell you anyway."

He knew that Mirabelle had an open mind concerning the supernatural, being a mage and the Archmage to boot, but saying things about long-dead brothers' lost souls and undead dragons didn't sound very smart to him. Who would have believed it?

Even _he_ was still trying to make up his mind about it.

"Still… are you sure you need the College resources for your research? I don't think—"

"It has something to do with magic, or at least I think so."

"Conrad, this looks like chicken-scratch."

"... Yes. Your point?"

"Why would you even _think_ it has something to do with magic?!"

"It has to do about how I found it, and I can't—"

"You can't tell me, I got it," Mirabelle said, slightly exasperated.

"The library of the Arcaneum is my best shot at finding answers. Will I be able to access it?"

"Of course you will, Conrad. You are still part of this College, after all," the Archmage smirked. "There will be some… conditions, of course."

Conrad blinked, unsure if he had heard her right.

"Conditions?"

"It's been quite a lot since you last came here in person, or even wrote to us for that matter. So, you'll have to… make amends."

"Come on, Mirabelle. You know I couldn't—"

"Since your research will take some time, I have the perfect task for you in mind. As I said to you earlier, we now have an unprecedented number of students."

"So?" he asked, even if he had a bad feeling about Mirabelle's ramblings.

"Conrad, students outnumber teachers twenty to one. Our lessons are now not focused on small classes, and—"

"Am I dreaming? Mirabelle Ervine, lamenting about the number of new apprentices she has to manage?" he snickered.

Mirabelle was less than amused.

"Do you really think the quality of our education system hasn't declined? Do you really think—"

"Alright, alright. I see your point, but what does that have to do with me?"

"_You_ are _more_ than qualified to take a few of our classes, to make the lives of our regular instructors a little easier."

There was a small pause as the two mages, Archmage and four-time candidate for the title, met each other's eyes.

It should be noted that one of them looked distinctly panicked.

"No way in _Oblivion_, Mirabelle."

"Oh, _yes_. You are going to take some apprentices, Conrad."

"Give me one, _valid _reason why I should—"

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

"Welcome, apprentices. I am Conrad Harissen, and I'll be your… mentor in this class," Conrad growled, doing his best to ignore the youngsters' wide eyes that were almost surrounding him.

There were so many of them, especially if he compared this lot with his own class when he'd joined the College. They looked so young… which make him feel older than he really was. And they were _whispering_ and looking at him in _awe_.

He already hated them.

With the aid of his crutch, he started to pace in front of the students assembled in the Hall of Elements, the place traditionally used for the spellcasting classes and practice. Conrad wanted to look them right in the eyes, hoping they would get scared and never show up anymore.

"Today, I'll show you the basic of the most known school of magic: Destruction," he said, trying to ignore the pains coming from his right leg. He made a mental note to speak with Colette Marence later, the wound was healing too slowly for his liking.

"As you may know," he said, "Destruction has only one use and purpose. To do harm to your enemies. Behind all the fancy words, all the theory, all the preparation… it's a weapon that uses magicka to rain death upon your foes."

To underline that last statement, he made some flames flicker in his free hand, so that all the apprentices could see. That ceased all the whispering at once.

"Since I can't let you kill yourselves, we'll start with the basics to protect yourselves. That would be the lesser wards to repel a magic attack," he said, inwardly smiling at the memory of his own first lesson. Tolfdir had been a great teacher, and Conrad still thought fondly of the old man.

"If you have any questions, ask them _now_," he said quickly, realizing that he had spaced off for a few seconds.

It was obvious that they were intimidated by him, because nobody was asking questions, and most of them were avoiding his gaze.

"Look," he sighed, "I'm just a teacher here, alright? So, ask a question, I won't burn you."

Probably.

Slowly, a hand timidly raised among the flock of students. Maybe he could be able to start this, finally.

"Yes, you there. Ask away!"

"Could you tell us about the dragons, master?"

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

"Boss, over here!" Haming waved from his seat inside The Frozen Hearth, as Conrad made his way towards him.

"Two weeks without looking for me, boss. I'm wounded!" the younger man wailed as the blond sat at his table.

"I was busy. And don't call me that!"

"Relax," Haming said, passing him a mug of mead. "Nobody's giving a damn about us. They just want to drink and forget their problems. So, what have you been busy with? Your research?"

"I wish, I wasn't even able to start my research yet." Conrad said, gritting his teeth. "I've been too busy with teaching a group of talentless rats how to not burn their own fingers with the excess magicka they put into the spell which would make them risk losing control of the power they're waving around."

"Wait, what?"

"Mirabelle made me a teacher for a bunch of brats who can't even light a candle on their own."

Haming blinked for a moment, before bursting out laughing.

"It's not funny," Conrad grunted.

"Yes it is! Just wait until I tell Feida and the others—"

"Who?" the blond asked, confused.

"Feida. You know, the woman who tried to poison you? Because the Thalmor forced her to? Nice curves?"

"Oh, her," he muttered, tasting the mead. "Did you interrogate her? Are you sure her story is genuine and she's not a double agent planted on us?"

"I've sent a few letters while you were playing with the mages. Her story is good, so she's just another victim of the Thalmor—"

"—or she has a damn good cover. We have seen it happen before."

"I'll have to keep an eye on her, right?"

"Damn straight you'll have to. Just don't get distracted by those _nice curves_, kid."

"Look who's talking. Boss, if I remember correctly, a few years ago, with that brunette from Riften—"

Conrad frowned, looking Haming right in the eyes, not uttering a single word.

Whatever statement or joke the young archer wanted to make, it died in his throat as he slightly leaned away from his friend and mentor with widened, worried eyes.

"Er, what I meant to say is, yeah, good advice?" the younger man quickly back peddled, not looking him in the eyes.

"Yes, I thought so. Now, tell me what have you done in the last weeks, and what you've found out about the town."

"Well… By the way, your eyes are slitted, boss. Let's start from the guys then… I found them a job!"

"What job? No, let me guess. Guards at one of the mines?"

Haming had the decency to look slightly offended.

"No boss! What do you take me for? I'm a _freelancer_!"

"Oh, it's one of _those_ jobs…"

"Hey! It's a good deal! Me and the boys are paid to hunt down monsters around the city. And bandits, if they become too pesky, but it hasn't happened so far."

"I doubt the brigands would become too pesky around this town, between the mages and the biting cold. What can you tell me about those mines?"

"They're scattered on the whole hold. But most of the ores are not close to the surface, so the miners must dig deep. And I mean, _deep_."

"Fuck," the older man said, gulping another sip from the mug. "How long, before the excavation catches the attention of the Falmer?"

"Worst or best chance?"

"Never been an optimist, Haming," Conrad said, cleaning his beard from the remaining drops of mead.

"Less than one year. Then some miners will start to disappear."

"It always starts that way," he admitted, grimly.

"The jarl won't listen to us, you know. The city is expanding, it's _growing_, all thanks to those mines."

"Then we do what we always do. We hope for the best, but prepare for the worst," Conrad simply stated.

"How?" Haming asked after a small pause.

"You have already inserted your men here, their cover is solid for now. Form a cell, and recruit more."

"Recruit—Boss, the people here are mostly mercenaries, sellswords...Shit, I'm sure that some people were bandits, once! And when they're not working, they're either drunk or in a brothel!"

"I know. Can you blame them?"

Haming's jaw went open wide, before he was able to formulate his next question.

"How can you think of recruiting them?"

"Not _all_ of them, of course!"

"So we—"

"So _you_ need to observe them. Look, see those two guys at the bar? The Orc and the Dunmer? What do you think of them?"

Haming followed his eyes, and looked at a pair of mercenaries who were enjoying their own drink without caring about the people around, not even each other.

"I don't know," the younger man admitted after a few seconds. "A green guy who loves heavy shields and a skilled archer?"

"The Orc is a former legionnaire. Do you see the tattoo on his left arm? It's barely visible, but it's there. He probably deserted during the Civil War, and now he's hiding in this frozen hole," Conrad said, not even looking away from his drink. "The Dunmer, however, has killed a lot of people with his bow. You can tell by the way he's carrying it, and how he moves, like a predator. That guy kills for sport, Haming. Be careful around him."

Haming looked at him, and then at the pair at the bar, speechless.

"How did you—"

"The eyes, Haming. Look how he watches everyone. He's imagining how fun it would be to aim an arrow at them. His eyes are surprisingly honest."

Then he took another sip, which by the counts of most other people was actually a very, very large gulp.

"Where'd you learn how to do it? This… looking at people and _reading_ them."

"Riften," Conrad said drily, and his tone didn't permit further questions about that.

"Alright. So, we prepare the city for the inevitable meeting with the Falmer, in secrecy?"

"People still think that the blind bastards are like goblin tribes, just an occasional nuisance. Or just a fable to scare the children. They won't listen. But maybe establishing a group here is a good thing."

"Really? How so, boss?"

"In the last few years, we've ignored the western holds, contentrating our efforts on the regions where the Thalmor are more influential. But we can't keep going on like this forever. We need more people, weapons, food—"

"You're starting to sound like Delphine, boss," Haming smirked.

"I take offense to that."

"Speaking of her, boss… I've received a letter from her. For you."

"Great. Something about the fact that I've not gone to Cyrodiil to hide in the ruins of that temple?"

"Something like that. Do you want to see it now or…" Haming rambled, pointing towards the inn's patrons.

"Just give it to me. I'll surely need a drink after reading it," Conrad said, urging the archer with a gesture of his hand.

As Haming extracted a parchment from his satchel, Conrad swiftly snatched it and began scanning the content.

After a few seconds of reading the letter, Conrad flinched.

"Yep," Haming acknowledged.

"Well, at least she's happy that I went to a place that the Thalmor avoid."

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* * *

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That night, once he was back in his room inside the teachers' quarters, Conrad dreamed of leaves.

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* * *

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"This, my unworthy students, is the College's library, better known as the Arcanaeum. I suspect that a few of you could be already know this, but I wanted to be sure."

Conrad ignored the students' various expressions of curiosity and enthusiasm—or lack thereof—as he guided the brats into the room full of tomes and ancient texts.

His leg was still hurting, but at least he didn't need a crutch anymore. The healing sessions with Colette were doing their job, along his own limited knowledge.

"You might be curious as to why I've decided to move our lesson on Alteration here, instead of meeting you in the usual place, the Hall of Elements. A mage should study not only how to cast his spells, but also the theory behind them. In addition, even knowledge of not-magical nature could be useful once you'll leave the College. Trust me on this one," he said, starting to take a few books from the shelves. "So, instead of exploring the great possible applications of the basic Alteration spells, we'll do a session in the library."

"Is this really necessary, master?" one of the students said. Sten, Sven, something like that. "I mean, we already know the theory, and it's not that—"

"Tell me, whatever your name is, do you know how the Dragon Priests died out?"

"My name is Sven!" the youngster sputtered indignantly. "After months with us, you would think that—"

"The _question_, Sven. It's ancient Skyrim history, you know."

"I—I don't know, master," the apprentice admitted, blushing.

A few snickers could be heard around, but Conrad was sure that very few of them knew the answer.

"Right, so you can all see my point. You never know when this," he said, gesturing to the bookshelves surrounding him and his class, "may become useful."

"How could knowing how the Dragon Priests died out be useful?!"

"Various ways. It could save you from another humiliation from your teacher, for example," Conrad said, as he placed the books he had gathered on a desk.

This time, the snickers were a little louder.

"Should we focus on something in particular, master?" a student asked.

What was his name? Not that Conrad cared.

"Choose on your own. I'm not here to tell you what you should read. Just don't bother me too much."

"Oh, I see now," Sven said, smirking like he had resolved some kind of enigma. "You just want an excuse to do your own research, don't you master?"

He knew? But how?

"What research?" one of the girls asked.

"Those runes that master Conrad has been researching since the day he came back to the College. With no result so far," Sven explained smugly.

Shit, the little twit was on to him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, _student_."

"I've heard the other teachers—"

"The other teachers should _teach_, instead of chatting like midwives," he growled, and a few of the students looked a little intimidated by him. But they were starting to get used to it. Conrad didn't like that at all.

"I'm just saying that it's something we could do on our own time, instead of not doing our usual lessons," the young Imperial insisted. A few voices expressed their support for his statement.

"True," Conrad conceded. "Too bad that your whole bunch is terribly lazy on your own time, just hanging around in the campus. Or going to the brothel. Yes, I'm speaking to _you_, third guy in the last row! I saw you sneaking out the other day! Who do you think you're fooling?"

The apprentice in question looked like he wanted to die instantly. The girls around him shuffled away, a little disgusted.

"Alright class! Enough drama for today. Pick a book, or even better, a lot of books, and start studying! Except for you, Sven. You're going to read _this_, and I'm expecting you to memorize its contents," he said, taking a small volume from a shelf and placing it in the lad's hands.

"'Uncommon Tastes, by the Gourmet'?" Sven read from the cover, before realizing, "Master, this… this is a _cookbook_!"

"A fine guide to the Bretonian cuisine, actually," Conrad deadpanned, starting to search for the other tomes he needed.

"Why should I study a book about cooking?!"

"Do you know any spell that can cook a fine Bretonian soufflé? Because I don't."

Not having an answer for that absurd statement, the young Imperial went to look for a seat, grumbling under his breath. It was then that Conrad noticed one of the other students, looking lost among the shelves.

What was her name? Stupid kids…

"You! Bertha, right?"

"B-Beta, master Conard, sir," whispered the poor thing. She looked like a deer who had seen the hunter aiming a crossbow at its neck.

"Whatever. Come here, lass."

Slowly the young apprentice came closer to him, and with each step she looked closer to having a panic attack.

"You're still having trouble with your Restoration spells, right?" he asked as he reached for a volume.

"Yes, sir. I do. I'm sorry, I promise that—"

"Here," Conrad said, giving the poor girl a copy of 'Racial Phylogeny'. "This should help. Study it and experiment a little with your spells."

The young girl was speechless for a few seconds, but slowly reached for the book.

"Thanks, master," she whispered, before departing in long, nervous strides.

Satisfied that his good deed for the day was done, Conrad opened one of the tomes he had selected.

"Pardon me, master," a raspy voice said behind him.

Conrad snapped his head, turning suddenly. One of the apprentices, a Khajiit, was standing right behind him. How did he sneak up on him unnoticed?!

"Ta'Sava has problems with Illusion. Would master recommend a book about that?"

Stupid kids. The only thing stopping him from outright throwing books at the students as they pestered him with questions about what texts they should study was the respect he had for Urag gro-Shoub's memory.

That, and the certainty that the old Orc's ghost would rise from the grave if any dared to damage his precious books.

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* * *

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"Mirabelle? A word, if you please?" Kaden asked as the Mirabelle crossed his path.

"Of course, my old friend, walk with me. You seem distressed, is there something wrong?"

"It's about… well, it's about Conrad Harissen."

"I see," Mirabelle said, frowning slightly. "Has he done something that troubles you?"

"Yes, but it's not something that he did. More like… _how_ he did it. And how he's still doing it."

"Kaden, what are you talking about?"

"His teaching methods are… unorthodox at best."

"Oh, yes, I can see that," Mirabelle smirked. Kaden had studied and started his career as a Teacher during the years of Conrad's absence, so it was natural that he would not have been used to him.

"The other day he forced all his class to _exercise_, Mirabelle!" Kaden said as he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. "While throwing spells! And—"

"I'm sure that a little exercise will not hurt our students, Kaden. It could even be good for them. Actually, I'm sure that a few of them are enjoying it."

"And he's so… so unlike a mage! I swear, if you didn't force him to, he would never wear his robes. And he's rude, and—"

"Even if he's not a typical mage, I want you to remember that he's never been 'typical'. And that he was considered for the title of Archmage on multiple occasions, long before my name was even brought up. And the only reason he's—"

"RUN! HE'S CRAZY!" a voice resounded in the hallway.

As both teacher and Archmage turned their heads, they saw a small group of students sprinting in their direction.

"Ta'Sava did not sign up for this!" a young Khajiit said frantically as he passed the stupefied pair.

"What—?"

"PRACTICAL LESSON?!" another voice thundered. As Conrad came around the corner, his hands cloaked with electricity. "I'LL GIVE YOU MAGGOTS A PRACTICAL LESSON!"

He was not gaining on the students, but he was more than making up for that with his lightning bolts.

Before the flabbergasted Mirabele and her fellow mage could react, both Conrad and his students were long gone.

As Mirabelle turned towards the teacher, she saw that he was looking at her, arching an eyebrow.

"He was missing them _on purpose_… I hope," Mirabelle sighed. "I'll talk to him."

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* * *

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"So, how's your research going?" Colette asked, while pointing to a student where to move his hand.

"No luck so far," Conrad muttered as he closed and discarded another priceless tome about ancient runes. "And it's getting on my nerves. It's been five months, and I've still got _nothing_!"

"Please, master Conrad, remain calm. Otherwise I will not be able to properly heal the damage to your ligaments," Beta, the insecure apprentice, said.

Since his leg was still aching, but the damage was now minimal, Colette had asked to use his limb as practice for her own teachings. Outside of the normal studies, of course. So while a number of apprentices in their late teens hovered around his leg, casting pathetically weak spells, he had decided to try to keep going with his own research. After all he didn't need to move for studying, and after Sven's little number a few weeks ago, all the campus knew about the mysterious runes.

Conrad was aware that the students had started a betting pool about whether he would be able to figure them out or not, and how long it would take.

He was reaching for another volume—a fine edition about symbols and their usage in magic of other countries, which was sadly a very limited knowledge—when he felt a weird sensation in the right knee.

"Are you sure a group of apprentices is good enough for this, Colette?"

"Masteeeer!" Beta wailed, her fellow students looking as offended as she.

"Bear with us for a little more, Conrad. Then you'll be fine," the Restoration teacher assured.

"I hope so," he said, before turning to the study group in front of him. "If I can't walk straight after this, I'm sending a Storm Atronach in your rooms tonight. Again."

"No, you will not. Not after Mirabelle's telling-off," the old Breton woman said.

"Spoilsport. They didn't know about _that_," Conrad said, as he saw the apprentices relaxing a little.

"You know, you would have healed at least two months early if you had practiced this on your own. Is your knowledge of the healing spells so rusted?"

"It's not rusted. I was just… busy doing other stuff. For various years."

"Sure you were," the healer mused, smiling slightly. "There, all done. You can stop now, students. Conrad, try to flex the leg please."

Nodding, Conrad slowly got up, testing his limb's recovered strength. He flexed it, made a few steps and finally put all his weight on it.

"Well?" Beta asked, nervously as always.

"No pain, no aches… I'm finally fine. Thank you, students," he proclaimed, with a slight smile. "Now, where are my pants?"

"On the desk behind you, master."

"Why, thank you," Conrad said as he started to put them on. "Now—"

"SVEN HAS MADE HIS SOUFFLÉ FOR EVERYONE, PEOPLE! COME TO _EAT_!"

To say that everyone was startled would be an understatement. The students jumped, Colette looked alarmed, and Conrad was searching for a missing weapon on his belt.

Ta'Sava was standing right in the middle of the crowd, no one having noticed his arrival. His furry eyes twitched in amusement, and he beamed at his peeved peers mockingly.

"Damn Khajiit," Conrad grumbled. "I should never have taught you that spell of invisibility."

Said Khajiit only grinned even more.

"Alright, kids. Go enjoy your meal before it gets cold," Colette said to the students, who gladly started to gather their few belongings. "And don't be too hard with Ta'Sava, Conrad. After all, you're _proud_ of him and the others."

"HA! As if!" he snorted in a maybe too forceful manner. Too bad that his eyes were probably betraying his denial.

Damn azure pool-like eyes.

"I think that young Sven missed his calling. He would have been an excellent chef," Colette remarked as the group, teachers and apprentices alike walked towards the room's exit.

"Don't tell him that, master Colette! I had to force him to start using those recipes!" Beta protested.

"AH" Ta'Sava barked. "Beta just had to look at Sven with her big, mushy eyes!"

Conrad couldn't help but chuckle at the poor girl's expense, watching as her face turned red while she tried to defend herself from that statement.

"Yeah," another student joined in. "Sven ended up popping his soufflé!"

As the students' chatter started to become louder, Conrad found himself remaining a little behind the others.

Their voices grew dimmer and dimmer, until they were but echoes bouncing off the stone walls of the ancient building. Conrad suddenly realized that he hadn't yet set foot outside of his room.

A sense of… _wrongness_ had intruded his mind, and he couldn't explain why.

He looked around. The room looked perfectly normal, not a single thing out of place. Then where did this horrible sensation come—

Behind him!

Conrad _whirled_, using the momentum to swing a power fist towards this intruder.

Fortunately the far shorter Khajiit managed to dodge, ducking right under it.

"Master, master! It is just your disciple!" Ta'Sava pleaded, throwing up his empty hands to show that he carried no weapon.

Conrad remained silent for a few seconds, his other hand still raised to strike. Obviously it wasn't the young student the cause of his uneasiness, because he could still feel it, reverberating all over the room.

"How many times have I told you to not sneak on me when I'm alone, Ta'Sava?" he asked. Nice save. Maybe the apprentice would not take him for a madman.

"Ta'Sava is sorry, master. Ta'Sava was sent to fetch master Conrad when master Colette realized that he had not followed us," the beastfolk explained. "Is...master alright? Master Conrad looks...suddenly troubled."

"I… I am fine, Ta'Sava," he replied. Or at least he hoped to be. "I was just—"

As Conrad was searching for an answer, he felt the room getting slightly colder, like heat was _fleeing_ the room. A change too sudden to be natural.

"Master, what—?"

Then the smell of rotten fish came.

"Fuck," Conrad hissed. He had to get the kid out of here, _now_. "Something has come up, Ta'Sava. It may take a while, I'm afraid."

Conrad hoped that the Khajiit would just take the hint and leave, but apparently the tension in his voice was thick and palpable.

"Is Master sure that—"

"_GO_, Ta'Sava," Conrad said, gritting his teeth. "And tell everyone that for tonight, this room is off limits.

The student's ears went flat as the chill reached him, and he felt the same sense of unease that had assaulted Conrad only moments earlier. His pupils dilated and his fur bristled while he looked around for a threat he couldn't see. Talos, the kid was going to panic.

"Go," the blond Nord said, posing a hand on the Khajiit's shoulder, trying to shake him out of it.

Ta'Sava didn't need to be told again. With a last look back to his teacher, he fled from the room.

Conrad slammed shut the door behind him, locking it.

That's when the chuckles started, a deep, rich sound.

"My, my, Dragonborn. Perhaps your student's fear was quite… warranted," a condescending voice resounded behind his back.

"What. Do. You. Want," he said, without turning. He was walking on the edge between cold fury and unleashed rage.

"What do _I _want? Oh, no, Last of the Dragonborns. That is not the right question."

"And what _is_ the right question... Hermaeus Mora?" he asked, turning towards the floating, formless mass of slick darkness and eyes. "You are not welcome here, or anywhere around me. You should _know_ that—"

"I have what you seek, Dragonborn," the daedric prince said, silencing him for a few seconds.

"... Of course. I should have thought as much," Conrad sighed. "You know every secret, don't you?"

"That is not a matter of importance. I have the knowledge you require, and it could be yours as well... for a price," it stated smugly, as though it were savouring the moment.

"Oh? And that would be...?" the Nord mage asked, inwardly cautious of the poisoned honey that he was being offered.

"The price? All you need to do is come work for me once you've completed this little... quest," the Lord of Secrets whispered all around him, while a tendril touched Conrad's shoulder, like it wanted to assure him.

"No matter what you ask, or what I would gain," Conrad snapped, slapping the cold tentacle of darkness. "I will _not_ serve you. I made that more than clear in Solstheim, years ago."

This was Conrad's statement, but inside him...inside him, a small part of him was tempted to accept. It would have been so _simple_. In five months he had achieved nothing, and he was almost out of options.

"So high and mighty," it _hissed_. And it was a terrible sound. "I suppose I could sweeten the deal with some knowledge about your brother's life, and of the people that took him as one of their own."

"You—you knew of… of course you did. You bastard."

Rage blossomed as the words were ripped from his lips. The Daedric Prince had always known about his missing twin, even before they met on the icy island that was now part of Vvenderfell.

"I know _everything_, Dragonborn. The more a thing is unknown or secret, the more precious it is for me," Hermaeus Mora explained with a condescending tone. "Now, make your choice. Serve me and gain that which you desire, or drown in your own ignorance."

A pressure engulfed the room as the Daedric Lord made his presence ever stronger. The pressure was terrible, and Conrad was already feeling his head spin.

"_CHOOSE_," it boomed, and the Dragonborn fell on one knee. Like he was pleading, humiliated.

No way he would give in. _No way in Oblivion_.

"I—" he gasped, "I don't need the help of a mass of floating eyeballs with an ego to figure this out."

The pressure was dispelled instantly, as it had never been there. Conrad was able to breathe normally again, but the foul stench of corruption was still present.

"You're making a mistake, Dragonborn," the Deadric Prince said, his—_its_—voice seemed more disappointed than angry. Good. "You _will _serve me in the end. It is inevitable. Why struggle? I could make your life so... easy."

Yes, it could._ It could_. But—

"In your wet dreams," Conrad growled. "Now get out of my room!"

"Very well, but remember, we will meet again—"

"Not if I can choose so. Get out."

"—because in the near future, you will stumble across a great number of secrets… _S-rank_ secrets."

"What?" Conrad blinked, confused by the unfamiliar term.

But the Daedric Prince had left, leaving behind no proof of his presence. Even the foul smell was fading fast.

Stumbling, Conrad managed to get on his feet. He had sent a Daedric Prince away, verbally flipping the bird to it. And one of the more dangerous ones to boot.

Somehow, this didn't taste like a victory. The fact that the Lord of Secrets showed an interest in those runes, and Conrad finding out their meaning, was worrisome.

Maybe the thing had an agenda in… wherever his brother had lived? But even then, why ask him? The Dremora should have known that he would refuse, even if the temptation had been great.

A gamble, perhaps?

"Minato, what mess have you gotten me into? And I haven't even started yet," he sighed.

Maybe Sven's soufflé would raise his spoiled mood. He still had to plan tomorrow's Alchemy lesson, after all.

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* * *

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That night, Conrad simply passed out on his bed once he finally came back in his room, his belly full of mead.

In his drunken slumber, he dreamed of four faces of stone, carved on the side of a small mountain.

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* * *

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He ignored the whispers, and started the lecture as programmed.

"As you may know, before the facts known as the Oblivion Crisis, the Mages Guild was a single organization, widespread on all Tamriel. After the Crisis, and the Thalmor's claims that they had saved the Mundus from the invasion of daedra, the general public started to believe that magic, and all magic users, were somehow responsible for those terrible events," Conrad said, not really interested if his students were listening to him.

The last week after Hermaeus Mora had been terribly stressful and had taken its toll. But it was not the Daedric Prince that had annoyed him.

It was the rumors.

"Both of these claims… are _lies_," Conrad growled to the students. Maybe he shouldn't have done that during a lecture, but damn it felt good.

He observed passively the young faces in front of him, who were now focused on his person.

"If you wish to know more about the Oblivion Crisis, I suggest you to check the Arcanaeum, or wait until we'll speak about it in another lecture."

He remained silent for a few seconds, more absorbed from his own thoughts than from the lecture he was supposed to give.

Normally he wouldn't have minded the rumors. He would have just ignored them. Nines knew that there were already a lot about him.

"The Mages Guild was dedicated to the study of magic, much like our own College today. Unlike the College of Winterhold, though, they provided their services to the general public."

He didn't blame Ta'Sava, he really didn't. The poor kitten been scared out of his fur, and it was not his fault if someone had seen him in such conditions and he hadn't been able to explain why.

"Which mostly means that they financed themselves selling potions and minor magical items and spells. More advanced—and dangerous—knowledge was reserved for the members, who were properly trained by the guild."

Conrad knew that it was influencing him. Because among the frustration of how badly the secret war against the Thalmor was going, being forced to lay low, and the fact that his research going nowhere, he now had to face the worried and even scared expressions of his students.

All his problems in the College, though, had origin in his research. His obsession with the runes that Minato had imprinted in his mind, and that somehow _Hermaeus Mora _was interested in giving to him that knowledge, for its own agenda.

Speaking of those, why couldn't the dead idiot implant more stuff in his head with such a spell?! An explanation, a way to use them..._something_.

But no, he had messed with Conrad's brain to give him four symbols and a wish from beyond the grave. And Conrad was an idiot like his deceased brother apparently, because he _wanted_ to fulfill that request.

"This doesn't mean that they were a magic shop spread on all Tamriel. I just want you to understand how different the perception of magic was back then," he said, trying to concentrate again on the lecture. "They were mostly researchers, studious, archivists. But some of them were pioneers, who explored new ways to apply the power of the magicka, creating most of the spells that we still use these days."

It didn't work. Somehow, he couldn't put himself in the—boring, he admitted that much—lesson about the past glories of the Mages Guild.

His mind kept thinking about the unexpected visit from Hermaeus Mora.

"Their first concern, as stated from their charter…was ensuring that all of Tamriel would benefit from their knowledge," he sighed, more because of his inner turmoil than from a genuine nostalgia for such days.

He had to admit it, after almost six months of work. He was stuck at the very first step, because the Arcanaeum couldn't help him. Whatever those runes were, no mage had ever seen them and put them on text, and without some reference, it could take years to decipher them and discover their purpose.

"The philosophy and politics of the guild changed various times since its founding during the Second Era. The change that we can still painfully feel, after two centuries, is the ban of the necromancy applied by the Arch-Mage Hannibal Traven," he continued, before doing a totally planned pause. "I can see that you're confused. How could a decision like that, done for the good reasons, influence us badly? Anyone wants to take a guess?"

A few seconds of silence passed. Strangely, Conrad couldn't decide what was the worse alternative: his students' newfound fear of him, or their inability to gather a conclusion from the given information.

"Fine, you asked for this. You!" he exclaimed, pointing a finger in a random direction, without even looking. "Answer the question."

The poor guy squeaked, like if Conrad had pointed a finger that was charging a deadly spell in his direction.

"It's, uh, it is because—" the student managed to ramble, somehow, "It is because the, um, necromantic cults?"

Conrad blinked. The little rabbit had managed to reply, after all.

"Exactly. You've all probably heard of them. Hiding in ruins, in caves, in the wild. Experimenting with things that should not be disturbed," he droned to his students, before changing his voice to a dangerous tone. "Should you ever join one of those bands of so-called 'mages' who only wish to use their power to inflict harm on passerbies, much like common bandits… I will hunt you down myself."

Maybe he was being too hard on them. But he didn't care anymore. He was angry, and he wanted to vent.

Even if he was angry at himself.

"Now, to continue our lecture," he said, ignoring the shock on some of his student's faces. "The various cults and groups of outlaw spellcasters have the same origin. During the Oblivion Crisis, the Mages Guild had to face their own crisis. Mannimarco."

A part of him, a very small part of him, thankfully easily squashed...was regretting refusing the deal with The Lord of Secrets.

"Mannimarco, who had secretly survived for centuries, gathered a large number of followers after the ban of the necromancy," Conrad said forcefully, not wanting to dwell on those thoughts. "His forces attacked, weakened and effectively crippled the Mages Guild, who was forced to rely on their own strength since the Empire was busy dealing with the invasion of Daedra."

His mind just couldn't let it go, of course.

Because he had hoped to be a better person. He was not a knight on a white stallion, rescuing damsels in distress, but he had always thought that he would have been able to resist such an obvious _temptation_.

Or at least, resist it with more firmness.

"Mannimarco was finally destroyed in a duel with Hannibal Traven's successor, but the troubles for the guild were not over. As I briefly told you before, people's perception of magic started to change after the Oblivion Crisis, and the Mages Guild were among the suspects. Even if it was widely known to the higher-ups of the Empire's government that the responsibilities were the cult known as Mythic Dawn, accusations were made."

Fuck, why couldn't those thoughts leave him alone? This was the reason why he hated to deal with Daedric Princes. They always messed with his head.

Even the two he could at least _tolerate_.

And Hermaeus Mora reminded him of a too personal matter.

"In the end, the Mages Guild was dissolved. A schism occured, in more ways that you may think. Two organizations raised by the ancient guild's ashes: the Synod, and the College of Whispers. These two groups are rivals today, competing with one other in the pursue of ancient, often forgotten knowledge. But they're not the only ones, no. Even our College used to be part of the Mages Guild, and like the College, there are now some small, independent magic schools scattered all around Tamriel."

And of course, he had been tempted because his research hadn't advanced at all.

Damn, he was thinking in circles now.

Repeating the same things over and over again was a symptom of madness, right?

It wasn't like he could ask Minato again. The portal to enter inside the Soul Cairn was inside Castle Volkihar, deep within Thalmor territory.

With the whole "laying low" situation, it wasn't a good idea.

And he couldn't summon Durnehviir to ask _him _to ask Minato. The dragon probably would have asked for a fight in exchange, and doing such a thing in an inhabited area was an even worse idea than hiking in hostile ground while the enemy was actively searching for him.

And he would _not_ attempt to enter the Soul Cairn like the last time, almost dying. He doubted it would have worked without the dragon's help, which would mean, a fight.

He hadn't felt this frustrated, helpless and _angry_ since the woman he loved had tried to _kill_ him—

"Master…?" a voice dared to interrupt him.

"WHAT?!" he snapped viciously.

Only to realize that he had lashed against the poor, concerned Beta. The girl instinctively retracted, her expression full of hurt.

It felt like he had just kicked a puppy.

Why were all looking at him like that? Maybe he had overdone it, but—

He had stopped talking, completely lost in his thoughts. How long had he remained silent, before Beta, of all people, had found the courage to talk to him?

Conrad understood perfectly that he was losing control, that he was _letting _himself lose control.

What if he hadn't just screamed at the poor girl? What if he had reacted as if an enemy had sneaked up on him?

He had to stay away from the kids, for their own good.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

"Conrad, what in Oblivion is _wrong _with you?!"

"Mirabelle, please..."

"Yelling at the students like that? You're not their blasted drill-master! This is a COLLEGE, Conrad. A MAGE'S college. Or have you forgotten?"

"So, throwing fireballs at them is fine, but not yelling at them?"

Mirabelle's features darkened. "Conrad, do not test my patience."

"Alright, sorry, Mirabelle. It's just—I don't really know. That's the problem."

"Conrad, what am I going to do with you?" the Archmage sighed, rubbing her eyes in frustration.

"I don't know. Maybe I should leave. I can pack my things in an hour."

"That would be for the best, Conrad," Mirabelle nodded gravely. "Feel free to come back once you've… cleared your mind. Take care of whatever you need to."

Conrad nodded in return, and without any further words, he left the Arch-Mage's office.

He debated immediately going towards his room to leave, but he decided against it.

He had left a little mess in the Arcanaeum the previous night, too tired to put the books in the right shelves. Since the new librarian was not… efficient like the old Orc had been, he supposed he could check it.

Then it was just a matter of prepare his bag, getting out of the robes Mirabelle had forced him to wear for months, and… and what?

He doubted he could complete his research, unless he wanted to try the Arcane University of the Imperial City. But he had no contacts there. It would be a fruitless journey.

No, he knew what he would do. He would find a nice spot to lay low without being a problem, wait until the Thalmor didn't expect anything, and go straight to Serana's former home.

Maybe even ask Serana to join for a ride.

Then he would punch Minato in his incorporeal face, over and over again, while screaming "Six months wasted!"

And only then would he ask to his brother to explain better.

If entering into Castle Volkihar revealed itself to be too risky…

Well, he had tried, at least. He could just go back doing what he had done for the last years. Even if the idea of surrendering didn't suit him at all.

As he entered the College's library, he found himself face to face with the last person he wanted to see now.

Beta was frozen in place a few meters away, a stock of books and scrolls balanced precariously in her hands.

She stared at him, moving her lips like she wanted to say something.

Conrad just ignored her and went to collect the books he had consulted. They were exactly how he had left them.

"Master," the girl finally managed to say, after just staring at him for some minutes. "I—"

"I'm not your master anymore, Beta. It's better this way," he interrupted her, without looking away from the books he was piling. "You kids will get a better teacher. A more patient one."

"We don't _want_ a different teacher. We just want to know what happened to you, Master Conrad."

Damn, why couldn't she just… hate him, fear him, or avoid him? This was unbearable.

"It's complicated, Beta. And as I said, I will not be your teacher anymore. I'm leaving the College today."

Silence descended again in the Arcanaeum, interrupted only by the soft shuffle of paper.

"It has to do with you being… well… the Dragonborn?" she asked, timidly.

"Not really. Yes. Whatever… Look, Beta. This is not… easy for me. Could you just leave me alone?"

Once again, he was rewarded with a hurt expression. Why had he started to _care_ for these kids?!

"I was here before you, Master," Beta sniffed stubbornly, clutching her papers tightly.

"You know what? You're right. I'll go then," Conrad said, putting the books on a shelf, not really caring if the placement was correct. Urag gro-Shub would probably punish his not enough diligent successor, anyway. He would have been long gone before the old Orc raised from the grave to punish him.

"Do you really have to leave _now_?!" the girl exclaimed while he started to move towards the exit.

"The sooner, the better," he said, not looking back once. He reached for the door's handle.

"I—I… Since you're leaving, could you at least help me with this research I need to do for a class!?"

What.

He slowly turned towards the girl, knowing that the right now he had the most incredulous face that Nirn had ever seen.

"What did you say?" he asked, unable to understand why the girl had asked him that.

"I asked… if you would help me with a research of my own? For the extra curriculum?"

"What are you working on?" he sighed, caving in. Those pleading eyes could have convinced a troll to not eat the girl.

"I… I'm reading these old scrolls," Beta said, not believing that it had worked. "They describe a spell of… Mysticism?"

"Ah, yes. The so called 'Lost School'," he mused, slowly coming closer to the girl to check the texts she was showing him.

"Lost?" Beta blinked.

"Well, have you ever heard of it before?" Conrad smirked, grimly. "After the fall of the Mages Guild, a lot of things changed. Some traditions were lost, as well. Mysticism was a school that was slowly abandoned. But its spells, or the majority of them, were incorporated in other schools, mostly Alteration."

"Oh," was all that Beta managed to say.

"Now, this spell you are studying?"

"Here it is," she said, handing over a large, thick scroll. "It's supposed to allow the user to teleport himself, but—"

"Let me guess," Conrad interrupted her after checking the details of the scroll. "You can't teleport at all, right?"

Beta's eyes widened, and she looked to panic for a second before deciding to go for embarrassment.

"Yeah, I'm sorry that I'm not that good."

"It's not your fault, Beta," he sighed. Seriously, the girl was a ball of yarn made of insecurities. "The fact is, you have only half of the spell."

"Huh?"

"Which doesn't surprise me, since a lot of the old Mysticism lore has been scattered and half-forgotten," he mused. "I've heard of this spell. It's composed of two separate ones. This is quite a good find, Beta. Be sure to tell to Mirabelle about this, if she doesn't already know."

"But… what use is it? If it's just half of a spell…"

"Well, I'm pretty sure that with enough time, a mage could reverse-engineer the other half. See, this part of the spell, 'Mark', is the one that is casted first. It creates a magic rune in a location or an item. The other part of the spell, that you don't have, allows the user to teleport back to where the first rune—"

It was right then that an idea bright as a fireball exploded in Conrad's brain.

And for a few, long seconds, he just remained completely silent, staring at the scroll in his hand.

"Master… you're kinda scaring me again," Beta tried to laugh, but her voice was full of apprehension.

Conrad blinked, and stared at her, and then at the scroll.

"Sorry, sorry, I just… realized something," he half-whispered, more talking to himself than the girl. "Would you mind if I borrow this… for… a while?"

"But… my research?" the student asked, confused.

"No matter! You just made top of _all_ my classes as far as I'm concerned!"

"What? But… weren't you leaving?"

"Leaving?!" Conrad exclaimed loudly. "Preposterous! I have a research to finish first!"

And with that, he left the poor, confused Beta in the Arcanaeum.

He was back in the game.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

* * *

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

A loud knock disturbed him. He was tempted to shout the good old Fus-Ro-Dah at the intruder, but sadly he had closed the door from the inside.

"Go away! I asked to not be disturbed!" he yelled without stopping scribbling notes on a parchment.

"Masteeer!" a voice lamented from behind the thick wood barrier.

"Beta, I've told you I don't wish to be disturbed! I'm at a breakthrough, here!"

"Ta'Sava told you guys that it was not a good idea."

"Oh, shut up, fur-face! You were worried more than any of us!"

"Does Sven want to start a brawl with Ta'Sava?!" was the angry reply.

"Guys, shut up! You're not helping. Master, you've not left your room in days! We're starting to get worried!"

"I'll leave when I'm done! Just a few more minutes…"

"Master, it has been two weeks!"

"What's going on here?" a new voice asked. Mirabelle. "Why are you all in front of this door?"

"We're trying to get master Conrad out of his room, Arch-Mage," was the explanation given.

"Conrad? When did he came back?"

"I never left!" he shouted towards the door. Then he added another scribble on the paper and crossed other two. "Didn't you notice?"

"What?! Why has no one informed me about—"

"How did you even _survive_, master?! What did you eat? Books?!"

"Food is for the weak!" he argued. Also, he _had_ eaten. Two days ago. Three. Whatever.

"Master… if you come out, we have mead for you."

Conrad remained still for a full minute, not responding to the obvious bait.

He went back to his work, giving the last touches to the whole thing.

"Give me that!" Mirabelle ordered.

Then he heard the sound of a bottle emptying.

She wouldn't dare...

And to his absolute horror, the precious nectar began to trickle in from under the door.

"Conrad," Mirabelle said, "If you don't come out right now, this mead will never go past your lips."

Conrad gritted his teeth. He was almost done!

"Oh, look at that. One bottle down, nine to go."

He heard a loud gulping noise. "Ah, _delicious_. There's nothing like honey mead."

Conrad's eyes went flat.

"Alright, alright! You win! I'm coming!" he replied, hurrying to open to unlock the door.

It was almost time to field-test his newest spell, anyway.

As he opened the door, he found himself face to face with a not pleased Arch-Mage who had an empty bottle in her hand.

And various students were watching the scene. Conrad absently noted the other bottles, safely in Beta's hands.

"You _monster_," he hissed.

"What are you doing in my College, Conrad? Didn't you said that you would leave?"

"I did. Then I changed my mind when I realized how to complete my research!"

"Master smells bad," Ta'Sava lamented, stepping back along his fellow classmates.

"Wait, you realized what?"

"No time to explain! Follow me!"

"Follow you where?"

"To the roof! And you may want to send someone to clean the pots inside my bedroom."

As he walked in the hallway in the direction of the stairway, he heard Mirabelle ordering to the apprentices to do something about the horrible smell and whatever it originated from.

A small fight amongst themselves as to who had to do it. In the end, Sven was shoved forward.

He had almost reached the door to the highest place of the College, when Mirabelle—and some of his students, minus Sven—caught up with him.

"Conrad! Why are you going to the roof?" the Arch-Mage asked, now more curious about what he had in mind than the fact that he had practically stolen a room for weeks.

"Just need to test a spell I researched, and I'm afraid it can't be done with walls around. Or a roof over your head," he explained, pushing the door.

"A spell that can't be used inside—Please tell me that you have no intention of experimenting with the Icarian Flight! There are less idiotic ways to kill yourself!"

"What? No! I have no intention of imitating a long line of idiots that could not even figure out that they had to _land_. I just need to do this in the open," he said, stepping in the snow-covered terrace.

"Fine, but I expect you to give me an explanation afterwards," Mirabelle mumbled.

"No promises, but I'll try," Conrad said as he stopped right in the middle of the roof.

There, the moment of truth. Either he had guessed right, or he had to punch Minato's ghostly face as soon as possible.

Even if he knew that his theory was a longshot, he had to try.

Conrad started to charge magicka in both of his hands, ignoring the students watching him curiously, held in place only by a protective gesture from Mirabelle.

A azure-white ball of magicka appeared in his hands, looking highly unstable.

He kept concentrating on the spell, overcharging it with arcane energies… before releasing it, high above him.

The ball of light immediately soared, at high speed, moving in a precise direction…

"East," Conrad whispered, before smirking. "Sneaky little bastard…"

"Conrad, was that—"

"Wait a moment, please," he interrupted, charging again the very same spell and releasing another ball of light that imitated the previous one. "Mmh, the direction is constant, so it's not a fluke."

"Conrad," Mirabelle said with a hard voice. "What. Was. That."

"It was a clairvoyance spell. A modified version, created by me to cover longer distances, and to search for a precise thing," he replied, still watching the still visible light that was still moving towards the horizon. "It uses quite a lot of magicka, though."

"The runes you showed me," Mirabelle realized. "Are you going to explain me why they're so important to you now?"

"Later, in your office. For now, let's just say that I think they're similar to a foreign version of the ancient 'Mark' and 'Recall' spells. Kids, time for a question of geography," he said, looking towards his confused students. "What lands lie at east?"

"...Vvanderfell?" Beta meekly asked.

"Well, yes. But...what lies further? On the other side of the sea?"

"Akavir, master Conrad?" Ta'Sava replied, arching an eyebrow.

"Indeed," Conrad sighed. "I am going to need a ship."

* * *

**A\N: This took forever. Please, review and give me some feedback! And now, enjoy this little omake.**

"Fine, you asked for this. You!" he exclaimed, pointing a finger in a random direction, without even looking. "Answer the question."

The poor guy squeaked, like if Conrad had pointed a finger that was charging a deadly spell in his direction.

"It's, uh, it is because—" the student managed to ramble, somehow, "It is because the, um, necromantic cults?"

"Ten points to Gryffindor!"


End file.
